SKETCHES 


OF 


LIFE   AND   CHAKACTEK. 


BY 


T.    S.    ARTHUR. 


ILLUSTRATED   WITH   SIXTEEN   ENGRAVINGS    AND    A 
PORTRAIT   OF    THE    AUTHOR. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.  W.  BRADLEY,  48  NORTH  FOURTH  STREET 

1850. 


Er.iered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  one  thousand 
eight  hundred  and  forty-nine,  by 

T.  S.  ARTHUR, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Eastern  District 
of  Pennsylvania. 


/039 


INTRODUCTION. 


THIS  volume  of  Sketches  and  Stories,  illustrative  of  Life  and  Character, 
is  made  up  of  articles  which  have  already  appeared  in  some  of  the  Magazines 
and  newspapers.  Many  of  them  were  published  anonymously,  but  are  now 
reclaimed  by  the  author  and  presented  in  a  more  permanent  form. 

In  offering  this  volume  to  the  public,  the  author  believes  that  he  is  put- 
ting forth  a  book  that  all  may  read  with  profit,  as  well  as  with  some  degree 
of  interest.  In  drawing  pictures  of  life,  he  has,  in  no  instance,  knowingly 
exaggerated  the  truth  in  order  to  produce  effect  or  startle  the  minds  of  hia 
readers.  He  has  endeavored  to  give  nature  as  it  is :  and  in  exhibiting  the 
evils,  errors  and  weaknesses  of  humanity,  has  only  done  so  in  order  to  lead 
the  mind  to  good.  In  the  way  he  has  chosen  he  is  aware  that  the  fame  of 
a  high  literary  excellence  does  not  await  him ;  that  he  will  not  be  much  es- 
teemed by  those  who  regard  either  startling  effect,  brilliancy,  or  artistic 
beauty,  as  the  chief  merit  in  an  author.  But,  as  he  has  never  aimed  at 
acquiring  a  reputation  ;  nor  sought  to  be  known  and  admired  as  a  writer, 
this  idea  brings  no  very  unpleasant  feeling.  Authorship,  as  a  profession, 
was  not  a  matter  of  choice  on  his  part  He  wrote,  at  first,  because  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  write,  and,  afterwards,  because  circumstances  made  it  necessary. 
His  choice  of  subjects  was  from  those  that  lay  all  around  him  in  common 
life.  He  had  but  to  open  his  eyes  and  see,  and  then  to  take  up  his  pen  and 
write  of  what  he  saw.  From  his  own  experience  he  has  drawn  largely,  and 
much  of  the  power  he  possesses  lies  in  the  fact  that  he  has  himself  erred  in 
judgment,  committed  mistakes  in  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life,  given  way  to 
weaknesses  of  character,  and  suffered  much  from  these  causes.  When  a 
man  feels,  he  speaks  more  earnestly,  and,  in  writing,  gives  truer  pictures  of 
nature. 

(iii) 


iv  INTRODUCTION. 

In  presenting  this  volume,  the  author  has  two  ends  in  view ;  one  to  give 
a  wider  circulation,  as  well  as  a  more  enduring  form,  to  certain  illustrations 
of  truth  for  the  sake  of  good,  than  they  have  had  in  the  ephemeral  sources 
through  which  they  first  found  their  way  to  the  public ;  and  the  other  that 
he  may  secure,  if  possible,  some  better  return  for  his  labor  than  he  has  here- 
tofore received,  in  order  to  have  more  freedom  from  that  daily  pressure  of 
care  for  the  future  which  frets  the  mind  and  takes  from  it  half  its  power. 

If,  in  a  generous  spirit  of  reciprocity,  every  one  who  acknowledges  him- 
self to  have  been  strengthened  in  good  purposes  by  the  author,  turns  toward, 
instead  of  from  him,  when  his  book  is  presented,  he  will  receive  fresh  en- 
couragement to  walk  in  the  way  that  opens  before  him ;  will  be  able  to 
write  from  the  vigor  of  a  new  impulse.  Unless  natural  life  is  adequately 
sustained,  the  higher  life  of  the  mind  cannot  come  forth  in  its  true  power 
and  usefulness. 
Philadelphia,  Sept.  1,  1849. 


CONTENTS, 


PAGE 
The  Methodist  Preacher ;  or,  Lights  and  shadows  in  the  Life  of 

an  Itinerant,        .....                ...  7 

Conquering  a  Peace,          ........  45 

A  Rise  in  the  Butter  Market, 59 

Deacon  Smith  and  his  Violin, 69 

The  Knight,  the  Hermit,  and  the  Man, 81 

Happy  on  a  Little, 86 

The  Village  Horse  Block, 97 

The  Ideal  and  the  Real, 102 

The  Belle  of  the  Ball  Room,    - 107 

The  Daguerreotypist, 120 

Seed  Time  and  Harvest,          -          ...«.£..  129 

The  History  of  a  Day  and  a  Life, 145 

Never  too  Late,        ........            -  154 

The  Sleigh  Ride, 168 

Charity  Begins  at  Home, -  176 

Dyed  in  the  Wool, 185 

The  Pic-Nic ;  or,  The  Young  Lady  who  was  not  Punctual,             -  191 

We  only  know  what  we  have  Lived, 200 

The  Child-Stealer, -  207 

Love  Tests  of  Halloween, 277 

Living  it  Down, -  292 

The  Chowder  Party, 301 

A  Dream  of  City  Life, -  306 

Can't  Get  Along, 317 

A  Stage  Coach  Adventure, 325 

Half  Lengths  in  Outline, 

Mr.  Carper,    -        -i -  337 

Mr.  Nightshade, fc           .  341 

Mr.  Bray, 345 

Mr.  Carker,        -          .......  359 

Mr.  Wiseacre,        -          .......  356 

The  Quilting  Party, 364 

i*  v 


ri  CONTENTS. 

If  you  will  do  no  Good,  do  no  Harm, JjJJ» 

Is  it  Economy  ?  An  Experience  of  Mr.  John  Jones,        -  -      382 

The  Donation  Visit, 

Treasure  on  Earth  and  Treasure  in  Heaven,  - 

The  Engraver's  Daughter, 

Washing  Day;  Another  Experience  of  Mr.  Jones.          -         -         -      413 


LIST   OF   EMBELLISHMENTS 

PAGE 

Portrait  of  the  Author, 

Parting  Glances, 15 

Mrs.  Livewell  and  the  Farmer, 63 

The  Village  Horse  Block, 97 

Sitting  for  a  Daguerreotype,    .....          -  122 

The  Sleigh  Ride,         ......            -         -  168 

ThePic-Nic,        -         ...        1         ....  191 

The  Child-Stealer, 207 

The  Child-Stealer  Foiled, 243 

The  Apple  Charm,            284 

Burning  the  Love  Candle,        ....              .  290 

The  Chowder  Party, 303 

Meeting  at  Breakfast, 334 

Mr.  Carker, .  350 

Arrival  of  the  Beaux,    ----         .         ...  3gQ 

Mr.  Jenkins  and  the  Goose, .             .  393 

The  Engraver's  Daughter.          ...           .            _  4^5 


SKETCHES  OF   LIFE   AND   CHARACTER, 


THE  METHODIST  PREACHER! 

OR, 

LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  AN  ITINERANT. 

CLOSE  OF  THE  CONFERENCE  YEAR. — So  ends  my  labor  in  this 
quarter  of  the  Lord's  vineyard.  A  whole  year  has  gone  by,  since 
my  lot  was  cast  among  the  people  in  this  section.  Have  I  been 
faithful  to  my  trust  ?  Alas,  no !  I  am  never  as  faithful  as  I  should 
be.  When  will  I  cease  to  mourn  over  short-comings  and  neg- 
lected duties?  How  infirmity  clings  to  us  poor  mortals !  I  find, 
on  examination,  that  fifty  souls  have  been  added  to  the  Church 
during  the  year.  Thank  God  for  even  this  number !  But  it 
ought  to  have  been  double ;  and,  no  doubt  would,  if  I  had  been 
instant  in  season  and  out  of  season  in  the  discharge  of  my 
duties. 

My  dear  good  wife  seems  more  than  usually  depressed  at  the 
thought  of  leaving  the  many  friends  who  have  endeared  themselves 
to  her  by  kind  offices  during  the  year.  Little  Mary  said  to  me 
this  morning,  "  Pa,  we  ain't  going  away  from  this  nice  house, 
are  we  ?  I  do  n't  want  to  go  away  and  leave  my  little  garden, 
and  pussy,  and  the  chickens,  and  my  sweet  pet  lamb.  Why 
don't  we  live  here  always?  I  'd  rather  live  here.  It 's  the  best 
place  we  ever  were  in."  My  heart  was  so  full  that  I  could  n't 
answer  the  dear  child.  But  I  took  her  up  into  my  arms,  and 
kissed  her  soft  lips.  "  Mamma  's  been  crying,  and  now  you  are 
crying  too."  A  tear  had  stolen  out  in  spite  of  all  I  could  do  to 
keep  it  back.  "  Don't  cry,  Pa  !  I  '11  love  you  so,  and  never  be 
naughty."  The  tears  were  already  gushing  from  her  bright  eyes. 


8  SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER. 

"  You  are  a  good  girl.    You  are  not  naughty,"  said  I,  in  a  sooth- 


more  and  more  like  a  child.    Instead  of  d/ying  up  the  fountain 
of  tears,  time  only  brings  an  accumulation  of  waters. 

It  is  hard  enough  for  me  to  break  the  bands  of  love  that  a 
year's  tender  intercourse  with  the  people  has  thrown  around  my 
heart.  But  this  I  could  bear,  if  other  and  gentler  hearts  than 
mine  were  not  made  to  suffer  ;  if  other  and  dearer  ties  than  those 
I  have  formed  had  not  to  be  broken.  My  wife  is  warm  in  her 
attachments.  She  loves  companionship.  On  every  new  circuit 
where  our  changing  lot  is  cast,  she  forms  intimate  friendships 
with  those  who  are  of  a  like  spirit  with  herself,  if  such  are  to  be 
found.  Sometimes  she  meets  none  to  whom  she  can  open  her 
heart  of  hearts — none  who  can  sympathize  with  her.  But  here 
it  has  been  different.  She  has  found  companions  and  friends — 
lovers  of  the  good,  the  true,  the  beautiful,  with  whom  she  has 
often  taken  sweet  counsel.  To  part  with  these,  and  go,  where 
and  among  whom  she  cannot  tell,  is,  indeed  a  hard  trial.  I 
passed  through  her  room  a  little  while  ago,  and  saw  her  sitting 
by  the  bed,  leaning  her  arm  upon  it,  with  her  head  upon  her 
hand,  and  looking  pensively  out  upon  the  beautiful  landscape 
that  stretches  far  away  in  varied  woodland,  meadow,  glittering 
stream  and  distant  mountain.  There  was  a  tear  upon  her  cheek. 
This  little  messenger  from  within,  telling  of  a  sad  heart,  touched 
my  feelings. 

"  Mary,"  said  I,  sitting  down  by  her  side,  and  taking  her 
hand  in  one  of  mine,  while  with  the  other  I  pointed  upward, 
"  HE  will  go  with  us,  and  HE  is  our  best  and  kindest  friend. 
If  we  would  wear  the  crown,  we  must  endure  the  cross.  '  For 
our  light  affliction,  which  is  but  for  a  moment,  worketh  for  us  a 
far  more  exceeding  and  eternal  weight  of  glory.'  We  are  only 
pilgrims  and  sojourners  here  ;  but  our  mission  is  a  high  and  holy 
one— even  to  save  the  souls  of  our  fellow-men.  Think  of  that, 
Mary.  Would  you  linger  here  when  our  Master  calls  us  away 
»  labor  somewhere  else  in  His  vineyard.  Think  of  the  Lord 
when  upon  earth.  Remember  how  He  suffered  for  us.  Hear 
Him  say,  <  The  foxes  have  holes  and  the  birds  of  the  air  have 
nests,  but  the  son  of  man  hath  not  where  to  lay  his  head.'  And 
shall  the  servant  be  greater  than  his  Master  ?" 


THE  METHODIST  PREACHER.  9 

"  I  know  I  am  but  a  poor,  weak,  murmuring  creature  ;"  she 
said,  laying  her  head  back  upon  my  bosom,  and  looking  up  into 
my  face  with  overflowing  eyes.  "  But  I  ask  daily  for  grace  to 
make  me  more  resigned  to  His  holy  will.  I  do  not  wish  to 
remain  here  when  I  know  that  it  is  the  Lord  who  calls  us  away. 
Still,  my  weak  heart  cannot  help  feeling  pain  at  the  thought  of 
parting  from  our  dear  little  home  and  our  good  friends  who  have 
been  so  kind  to  us,  and  going,  I  know  not  whither.  My  wo- 
man's heart  is  weak,  while  my  faith  is  strong.  And,  after  all," 
she  added,  with  a  brightening  face,  and  a  more  cheerful  voice, 
"perhaps  it  may  please  Him  that  you  may  be  appointed  to  a 
station  instead  of  a  circuit.  You  have  been  on  circuits  now  for 
seven  years!" 

"  Hush,  Mary  !"  I  said  quickly,  laying  my  fingers  over  her 
mouth.  "  These  are  temptations  of  the  flesh.  The  Lord  does 
not  regard  our  external  good,  but  our  salvation,  and  the  salva- 
tion of  precious  souls.  If  it  is  good  for  us,  spiritually,  and  also 
for  the  good  of  others,  that  I  receive  a  station,  our  lot  will  be 
cast  in  some  town  or  city.  But  if  otherwise,  then  I  shall  have 
to  take  another  circuit.  In  either  event,  the  Lord's  goodness 
must  be  praised  by  us,  for  his  goodness  and  mercy  have  fol- 
lowed and  will  follow  us  to  the  end  of  life." 

"  How  weak  I  am,"  was  Mary's  reply.  ; 

'  Weaker  than  a  bruised  reed, 
Hcip,  I  every  moment  need.' 

But  in  you  I  have  one  ever  prompt  to  recall  my  thoughts  back  to 
duty.  Why  should  I  ever  forget  to  pray  in  the  words  of  a  sweet 
hymn — 

'  Let  every  murmuring  thought,  and  vain, 

Expire,  in  sweet  confusion  lost ; 
I  cannot  ot  rnv  crosa  complain, 

I  cannot  of  my  goodness  boast  V 

Or, 

'  Close  by  Thy  side,  O  may  I  keep, 

Howe'r  life's  various  currents  flow— 
With  steadfast  eye  murk  every  step, 
And  follow  Thee  where'er  I  go  !'" 

"  Yes,  Mary,  let  us  ever  thus  pray,  and  He  will  hide  us  in 
the  cleft  of  the  rock  while  the  storm  rages  in  the  sky,  so  that  it 
cannot  harm  us.  The  peace  thatpasseth  all  understanding  shall 
be  ours,  if  we  faint  not  by  the  way." 

"  I  know  it — I  know  it !  Be  still  my  poor,  weak  heart !"  she 
replied  in  a  low  murmur.  "  Thus  far  the  Lord  has  been  better 


10  SKETCHES   OF  LIFE   AND   CHARACTER. 

to  me  than  all  my  fears.  Why,  then,  should  I  hold  backhand 
feel  so  reluctant  to  enter  the  path  His  wisdom  points  out?  I 
know,  if  he  were  to  lead  me  to  prison  or  to  death  that  it  would 
be  for  iny  good.  If  He  were  to  slay  me,  yet  would  I  trust  m 
Him.  Still,  while  my  spirit  is  willing,  the  flesh  is  weak.  Pray 
for  me  that  I  may  be  endowed  with  more  grace." 

Yes,  Mar)-,  you  shall  have,  you  always  do  have  my  poor 
prayers.  Keep  her,  Heavenly  Father,  in  the  way  !  Make  smooth 
for  her  the  rough  paths  of  peevish  nature.  Fold  her  as  a  tender 
lamb  in  thy  bosom.  Hide  her  beneath  Thy  wing.  Be  to  her 
like  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  wear}-  land.  And  to  thy 
servant  grant  grace,  that  he  may  feel  no  anxiety  about  the  future. 
Though  rough  and  thorny  be  'the  way  in  which  it  may  be  thy 
good  pleasure  to  have  me  walk,  *  My  strength  proportion  to  my 
day.' 

Day  after  to-morrow  I  must  leave  for  P to  attend  the  an- 
nual Conference.  I  have  already  found  a  purchaser  for  my 
horse- — How  I  regret  to  part  with  the  patient,  faithful  animal, 
that  has  borne  me  so  safely  round  and  round  my  circuit  for  a 
year !  But  I  think  I  have  found"  him  a  good  master,  though  the 
price  obtained  is  not  over  two-thirds  what  he  cost  me,  and  this 
sum  will  be  far  from  adequate,  I  fear,  for  the  purchase  of  another 
horse  when  I  get  on  my  new  circuit — a  circuit,  I  suppose,  it  will 
be,  for  I  have  not  talents  popular  enough  for  cities.  I  preach  too 
plain  and  pointed.  But  no  matter — some  of  us  must  go  into  the 
highways  and  byways  to  call  sinners  to  repentance,  and  I  am  no 
better  than  my  brethren.  There !  some  one  has  just  knocked  at 
the  door  below.  I  must  go  down  and  see  who  it  is. 

It  was  one  of  the  stewards.  He  has  ridden  about  six  miles 
this  morning  to  bring  me  my  quarterage.  He  is  a  kind-hearted 
man,  and  has  always  been  my  friend.  He  seemed  to  regret 
much  that  the  sum  was  so  small.  Only  fifty  dollars,  making,  in 
all,  just  two  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars  in  money  during 
the  year — and  I  with  a  wife  and  two  little  ones  to  support !  But, 
then,  many  loads  of  wood,  and  bags  of  potatoes,  and  bushels  of 
corn,  and  other  substantial  matters  have  been  sent  in  just  at  the 
right  moments.  I  did  hope,  very  much,  that  the  sum  would 
have  been  seventy-five,  or  one  hundred  dollars,  seeing  that  the 
other  payments  had  been  so  small ;  for  I  owe  several  little  bills 
about,  which  must  be  paid  before  I  go  away.  There  is  the  shoe- 
maker s  bill,  ten  dollars— and  the  money  for  foddering  our  cow 


THE  METHODIST  PREACHER.  11 

last  winter  is  still  to  be  settled.  Besides,  the  doctor  hasn't  been 
paid.  I  don't  know  what  his  bill  will  amount  to.  We  have  had 
a  good  deal  of  sickness,  and  he  has  been  very  attentive.  He 
doesn't  belong  to  our  church,  and  I  don't  know  how  he  will 
feel.  Then  our  maid's  wages,  for  two  months,  are  due,  and 
there  is  a  bill  against  me  down  at  the  store  that  T  am  almost 
afraid  to  ask  for.  All  these  will  take  away  nearly  the  whole 
amount  of  quarterage  I  have  received,  and  leave  but  little  for  the 
doctor ;  to  say  nothing  of  what  it  is  going  to  cost  us  to  get  to 
Conference,  a  distance  of  nearly  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles. 


I  have  just  been  to  the  store  and  paid  my  bill.  It  was  twenty 
dollars  !  How  rapidly  little  things  swell  into  formidable  aggre- 
gates. I  did  not  think  the  charges  there  could  possibly  have 
been  above  ten  or  twelve  dollars — and  yet,  in  looking  over  the 
items,  I  perceived  that  they  were  all  correct ;  and,  to  my  self- 
condemnation,  recognized  two  or  three  charges  for  things  not 
absolutely  needed,  and  which,  if  I  had  been  going  to  pay  the 
cash,  I  would  not  have  bought.  This  plan  of  running  up  bills  at 
the  store  I  have  made  resolutions  against  more  than  a  dozen 
times  in  my  life,  as  a  bad  system,  and  fraught  with  divers  temp- 
tations. It  is  so  easy  to  get  a  thing  when  you  don't  have  to  pay 
for  it  on  the  spot.  But  settling  the  bill  is  never  such  easy  work. 
It  is  plain  enough  that,  after  paying  all  my  other  bills,  there  will 
be  nothing  left  for  the  doctor.  We  sold  our  cow  six  weeks  ago. 
She  went  dry,  and  we  could  not  afford  to  keep  so  unprofitable  a 
servant.  The  money  she  brought  is  all  gone.  The  forty  dollars 
paid  me  for  my  horse  I  must  not  touch,  if  I  can  possibly  keep  it. 

That  sum  must  be  reserved  for  the  purchase  of  another,  when 
I  get  to  my  new  appointment ;  for,  a  methodist  preacher  might 
as  well  be  without  his  license  as  without  his  horse.  Our  two 
feather  beds  and  bedding  must  not  be  sold.  We  shall  want  them 

wherever  we  go.  I  will  write  to  brother  S ,  as  soon  as  the 

appointments  are  known,  to  send  the  boxes  in  which  we  pack 
them  and  our  parlor  carpet,  with  a  few  other  things  that  can  be 
sent  in  that  way,  to  our  new  place  of  abode.  Besides  these, 
there  is  not  much  in  the  parsonage  that  we  can  call  our  own. 
The  bedsteads  belong  to  it,  and  so  do  the  chairs  and  tables,  and 
the  old  bureau  that  stands  in  our  chamber,  with  sundry  other 
things.  Perhaps  I  may  get  ten  dollars  for  all  remaining. 


12  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE   AND   CHARACTER. 

Another  day  has  passed,  and  to-morrow  we  must  take  the  stage 

for  p fcven-  body  is  paid  but  the  doctor,  and  the  whole 

of  my  last'quarterage  is  gone.  If  I  could  only  sell  the  few  things 
we  cannot  take  with  us,  I  might  be  able  to  pay  him  a  part 

of  his  bill.  But  nobody  wants  them.  I  must  ask  brother  S 

to  dispose  of  them  in  some  way,  as  soon  as  he  can,  and  pay  over 
whatever  he  receives  to  the  doctor.  After  all,  I  shall  have  to 
spend  at  least  twenty  dollars  of  my  horse-money  for  stage  hire 

for  myself  and  family  to  P- ,  if  not  more.^  I  have^never  been 

in  so  narrow  a  place  before. 

Well,  I  have  just  seen  the  doctor.  May  the  Lord  reward  him, 
for  I  cannot !  "  For  whosoever  shall  give  you  a  cup  of  water  to 
drink  in  my  name,  because  ye  belong  to  Christ,  verily  I  say  unto 
you,  he  shall  not  lose  his  reward."  I  went  over  to  the  doctor's 
after  dinner,  feeling  very  badly  indeed.  For  a  whole  year  he 
had  faithfully  attended  to  the  health  of  my  family — coming  in 
cold  and  heat,  at  night  or  day,  in  rain  or  shine,  just  as  there  was 
need — and  I  had  nothing  to  give  him.  Was  there  any  justice  in 
this  ?  I  was  a  preacher  of  righteousness — a  reprover  of  evil  in 
all  its  forms, — and  yet  I  had  received  this  man's  invaluable  ser- 
vices for  a  whole  year,  and  had  nothing  to  pay  him.  Once  I  felt 
so  badly  that  I  stopped  in  the  road,  turned  back,  and  walked 
a  few  paces,  determined  not  to  see  him ;  but  to  go  home  and 
write  him  a  long  letter,  explaining  my  situation.  Conscience, 
that  ready  monitor,  quickly  chided  me  for  this  ;  and  I  again  took 
my  way  towards  his  dwelling.  Just  then  I  heard  the  sound  of 
wheels  behind  me,  and  turning,  saw  the  doctor  coming  down  the 
road  in  his  gig.  My  heart  beat  heavily.  In  a  little  while  he 
came  up,  and  reigned  in  his  horse  as  I  stopped. 

"  Good  morning,  doctor,"  said  I,  in  a  half  audible  voice,  for 
1  could  hardly  compel  my  tongue  to  do  its  office. 

"Ah,  good  morning!  good  morning!"  he  returned  cheerfully, 
and  with  great  apparent  pleasure  at  seeing  me.  "  How  are  you 
to-day?" 

"  Quite  well,  I  thank  you,  doctor!  I  am  just  on  my  way  to 
your  house." 

"  Indeed  !  Then  get  up  and  take  a  seat  in  my  gig,  for  I'm 
returning  home." 

I  took  a  seat  by  the  doctor's  side,  in  silence,  and  tried  to  feel 
easy  and  assured ;  but  couldn't. 


THE    METHODIST    PREACHER.  13 

"  Some  one  told  me  to-day  that  you  were  going  to  leave  us," 
said  he,  after  a  few  moments. 

"  Yes,"  I  returned.  "  This  is  my  last  day.  I  must  start  to- 
morrow for  Conference." 

"  So  early — indeed  !  Well,  I  must  say  that  I  am  sorry  to  lose 
you  so  soon.  I  ought  to  have  seen  more  of  you  during  the  year, 
but  professional  duties  deprive  me  of  much  pleasant  social  inter- 
course. Where  do  you  expect  to  go  next  ?" 

"  We  never  know  that,  doctor,"  I  replied.  .  "  We  are  ser- 
vants of  Conference,  and  go  wherever  it  directs." 

"  You  have  no  choice,  then  ?" 

"  0,  no.  That  wouldn't  do.  All  would  choose  the  good  cir- 
cuits, and  none  the  bad  ones." 

"  Very  true.  But  are  you  always  content  with  your  appoint- 
ments ?" 

"  I  try  to  be,  doctor.     But  my  weak  flesh  rebels  sometimes." 

"  Pardon  me, — but  what  do  you  usually  get  in  a  year  ?" 

"  Rarely  over  three  hundred  dollars,"  I  said,  a  little  hesita- 
tingly, "  and  sometimes  not  more  than  half  that  amount.  Many 
unmarried  men  do  not  get  over  thirty  or  forty  dollars  in  money." 

"  Is  it  possible  !  How  much,  if  I  am  not  asking  an  improper 
question,  have  you  received  during  the  past  year." 

"  Just  two  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars.  But  then  I  have 
had  many  presents  of  wood,  and  potatoes,  and  meal,  &c.,  which 
have  helped  me  a  good  deal." 

"  Two  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars  a  year,"  returned  the 
doctor,  in  a  musing  tone.  "  And  have  you  been  able  to  keep 
out  of  debt  ?" 

"  I  have  paid  off  every  bill  but  yours,  and  it  is  to  get  this  that 
I  am  now  on  my  way  to  your  house." 

My  voice  trembled  as  I  said  this,  despite  all  I  could  do  to 
appear  calm.  I  did  not  wish  to  wrork  upon  the  kind  old  man's 
sympathies  by  seeming  concerned  about  his  bill,  and  for  this 
reason  I  tried  hard  to  appear  undisturbed  in  mind.  He  made 
no  reply  to  this,  and  we  rode  on  for  the  remaining  distance  in 
silence.  The  doctor  was  lost  in  thought  about  something;  pro- 
bably, I  conjectured,  as  to  the  chances  of  his  getting  even  a  fifth 
part  of  his  bill  out  of  a  man  who  had  received  only  two  hundred 
and  twenty-five  dollars  in  the  year,  and  had  already  paid  off  all 
his  little  debts.  At  length  we  arrived  at  his  beautiful  cottage, 
around  which  the  old  trees  clustered,  and  over  which  their  limbs 
2 


14  SKETCHES   OF   LITE   AND   CHARACTER.^ 

depended  gracefully  and  protectingly.  He  showed  me  into  his 
library,  and  bade  me  be  seated,  in  his  kind  manner.  He  then 
drew  a  chair  near  to  me,  and  said— I  shall  not  soon  forget  his 
words — 

"  I  am  not  attached  to  any  of  the  churches  about  here.  My 
profession  does  not  give  me  much  chance  of  hearing  preaching. 
Some  call  me  an  Episcopalian  ;  and  perhaps  I  have  some  pre- 
ference for  the  external  forms  of  that  church. — But  no  matter.  -I 
read  my  Bible  and  believe  it  to  be  the  Word  of  God.  The  lead- 
ing article  of  my  faith  is,  that  the  Natural  should  ever  serve  the 
Spiritual.  That  is,  that  wordly  ends  and  worldly  affections 
should  always  yield  to,  or  serve  Spiritual  ends  and  Spiritual 
affections.  That  eternal  things,  and  not  mere  temporal  things, 
should  be,-  primarily,  regarded.  By  this  rule  I  daily  strive  to 
regulate  my  actions — though  often  tempted  to  swerve  from  it. 
Will  this  serve  Natural  life  or  Spiritual  life  ?  I  ask  myself  when 
about  to  do  anything.  And  if  the  act  I  have  proposed  to  myself 
is  one  that  I  would  not  like  to  see  recorded  in  the  book  of  my 
life  when  it  is  opened  in  the  other  world,  I  compel  myself  not  to 
do  it,  no  matter  how  strongly  Natural  life  pleads  for  the  indul- 
gence of  some  selfish  gratification.  In  all  this,  I  am  conscious 
that  I  do  not  conquer  in  my  own  strength — for  I  learn  from  the 
Bible  that  every  good  and  perfect  gift  is  from  above ;  and  the 
power  to  rise  above  the  strong  tendencies  of  Natural  life,  is  in- 
deed a  good  gift,  and  must,  therefore,  be  from  above.  I  there- 
fore acknowledge  the  Lord  as  above  all  and  in  all,  and  the 
worker  of  all  good  that  I  am  enabled  to  do.  Ministers  of  the 
Gospel  are  His  servants  here  in  Spiritual  things.  They  are  dis- 
pensers of  His  health-giving  principles  to  the  soul,  as  I  am  of 
His  health-giving  principles  to  the  body.  While  they  minister 
in  Spiritual  things,  I  minister  in  Natural  things,  and  both  are 
alike  His  servants  who  in  the  end  heal  in  the  Natural  or  Spirit- 
ual bodies.  Hence,  too,  I  deem  it  a  privilege  to  make  the  Natu- 
ral serve  the  Spiritual.  While,  amid  privations  and  self-denials, 
His  ministers  in  Holy  things  are  dispensing  to  all  the  healing 
waters  of  life,  I  deem  it  nothing  but  a  duty  as  well  as  a  pleasure, 
to  dispense  to  them  and  their  families  the  natural  remedies  that 
overcome  bodily  diseases.  You  owe  me  nothing,  then,  my  dear 
I  would  not  touch  a  dollar  of  the  poor  compensation  you 
and  your  fellow  laborers  receive,  for  worlds.  I  should  not  like 
mat  act  written  upon  my  book  of  life." 


PARTING  GLANCES. 


THE  METHODIST  PREACHER.  15 

I  arose  from  my  chair  as  he  ceased  speaking,  and  reaching 
out  my  hand,  said,  as  I  took  his,  and  pressed  it  hard  between 
both  of  mine — "  Brother — yes,  I  must  call  you  brother — I  thank 
you  from  my  heart  of  hearts  !  I  came  here  with  a  reluctance 
that  I  cannot  describe, — I  had  but  little  left,  not  even  enough  to 
take  me  to  Conference,  without  breaking  in  upon  money  re- 
served from  the  sale  of  my  horse,  to  buy  another  when  I  got 
to  my  next  circuit.  I  had,  therefore,  no  means  of  paying  you, 
except  a  little  furniture  I  leave  behind,  and  which  I  have  in- 
structed brother  S to  sell  for  me.  Whatever  this  might 

bring,  I  intended  should  go  towards  settling  your  bill.  Ah,  sir ! 
you  will  have  your  reward !  Spiritual  life  is  far  more  blessed 
than  Natural  life." 

"  I  have  my  reward,"  was  the  doctor's  calm  reply,  returning 
the  earnest  pressure  of  my  hand.  "  Think  you  that  a  few  paltry 
dollars  added  to  my  store  could  give  me  the  delight  I  this  mo- 
ment experience  ?  No  !  No  !" 

Excellent  man  !  I  parted  with  him  in  tears.  His  real  worth 
I  discovered  when  about  to  be  separated  from  him,  perhaps 
forever. 

After  making  all  arrangements  for  leaving  the  parsonage  early 
in  the  morning,  and  holding  a  little  social  prayer  meeting  with  a 
few  beloved  brethren  and  sisters  who  came  to  bid  us  farewell, 
we  retired  for.  the  night  and  slept  soundly.  At  day-dawn  we 

were  up.  Brother  S came  soon  after  and  took  charge  of 

every  thing  we  were  leaving  behind.  He  will  do  the  best  for  us 
and  render  a  faithful  account. 

When  all  were  ready  to  start  for  the  stage  office,  about  a  mile 

away,  in  brother  S 's  dearborn,  I  missed  my  dear  wife.  I 

called  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  for  her,  but  received  no  answer. 
I  went  up,  and  entered  her  chamber, — there  she  was  by  the  bed- 
side, upon  her  knees  ;  her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  woeping  and 
praying.  It  was  hard  to  leave  that  pleasant  chamber,  endeared 
to  her  by  so  many  sweet  associations.  I  knelt  down  by  her  side, 
and  in  a  low  voice  prayed  that  the  Lord  would  give  us  both 
more  grace.  That  he  would  make  us  faithful  and  obedient  ser- 
vants of  his  will.  Then  drawing  my  arm  around  her,  I  assisted 
her  to  rise,  kissed  her  tearful  face,  and  pointing  upwards  said — 

"  Our  troubles  and  our  trials  here, 
Will  only  make  us  richer  there, 
When  we  arrive  at  home." 


15  SKETCHES    OF  LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

She  laid  her  head  upon  my  bosom,  weeping  bitterly ;  but  recov- 
ered herself  in  a  little  while,  and  with  a  calmer  face  than  I  be- 
lieved it  possible  for  her  to  assume,  descended  and  entered  the 
wa^on  with  the  children.  She  did  not  venture  ^tp  look  back. 

Broker  s drove  us  over  to  the  stage  office.  The  stage  was 

at  the  door  when  we  arrived.  I  went  in  to  book  my  name,  and 
asked  for  seats  for  myself,  wife  and  children  to  P . 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  agent,  "  Your  names  are  already  en- 
tered." 

"  0,  no,  you  must  be  mistaken,"  said  I,  "  I  have  not  been 
here  before." 

"  No  matter.  Your  names  are  booked,  and  the  passage  paid," 
he  replied,  handing  me  the  way-bill  upon  which  were  entered 
our  names,  and  twenty  dollars,  the  price  of  passage,  marked 
paid. 

"  Who  has  done  this  ?"  I  asked,  looking  at  the  man  in  sur- 
prise. 

"  One  who  wished  his  name  not  to  be  told,"  was  the  reply. 

I  stood  for  a  moment  in  silent  astonishment,  and  then  turned 
away.  I  was  seated  in  the  stage,  wondering  in  my  own  mind 
who  could  have  done  that  generous  act,  when  the  agent  came 
up  to  the  window.  After  handing  the  way-bill  to  the  driver, 
and  telling  him  that  his  time  was  up,  he  said  to  me — 

"  As  you  are  leaving  these  parts  never  again,  perhaps,  to  return, 
I  cannot  let  you  go  without  a  word.  If  I  may  not  tell  the  man's 
name,  I  may,  I  presume,  his  profession.  He  was  a  doctor." 

At  that  moment  the  driver's  whip  cracked,  and  the  horses 
sprang  forward  with  the  stage. 

"  The  doctor!"  I  mentally  ejaculated.  "  May  the  Lord  re- 
ward him  as  he  deserves  !" 


CONFERENCE. — Appointments  for  the  year  are  to  be  read  out 
to-morrow.  I  endeavor  not  to  feel  any  concern,  but  it  is  hard 
to  be  wholly  given  up  to  the  Master's  will.  My  poor  dear  wife 
is  nervously  anxious,  but  tries  hard  not  to  let  me  perceive  her 
real  state  of  mind.  We  are  with  a  good  brother  and  sister  who 
make  our  stay  in  P truly  pleasant,  as  far  as  external  things 


THE  METHODIST  PREACHER.  17 

are  concerned.     Brother  H ,  the  Presiding  Elder  of . 

District,  asked  me  a  good  many  questions  yesterday  about  the 
increase  of  the  Church  on  my  circuit  during  the  year,  and  other 
matters  relative  to  my  late  charge.  There  are  two  or  three  Sta- 
tions in  his  District,  and  all  the  circuits  are  pleasant  and  con- 
tain a  good  many  wealthy  members.  I  wonder  why  he  seemed 

so  interested  in  me  ?     Last  night  I  preached  in Church. 

Brother  H was  there,  and  so  was  the  Bishop.     I  tried  to  do 

my  best,  but  failed  signally.  I  never  was  so  much  in  the  dark 
with  a  subject  in  my  life.  The  Bishop,  I  thought,  seemed  uneasy. 
But  this  may  be  only  imagination.  I  don't  wonder,  however, 
that  I  couldn't  get  along ;  for  I  thought  more  of  the  approval  of 

the  Bishop  and  brother  H ,  than  I  did  of  saving  sinners. 

Alas  !  Poor  weak  human  nature  ! 

Some  of  the  brethren  have  come  in  sadly  off  indeed.     Brother 

L ,  who  rode  the circuit,  told  me  that  thirty-two  dollars 

was  all  the  money  he  received  during  the  whole  year.  The  mem- 
bers of  the  church  in  that  quarter  are  mostly  poor  farmers  who  re- 
ceive but  little  money.  They  trade  their  produce  at  the  stores  for 
what  they  need ;  or  exchange  with  other  farmers  their  surplus 
crops  for  stock,  or  anything  else  they  may  want.  There  is  very 
little  spiritual  life  among  them.  He  said  that  he  had  a  hard 
time  indeed,  and  pities  from  his  heart  whoever  may  chance  to  be 
his  successor.  A  married  man  on  that  circuit,  he  thinks,  would 
stand  a  chance  of  starving. 

Brother  S ,  who  has  had  for  the  last  two  years  excellent 

places,  seems  disposed  to  think' that  there  is  a  good  deal  of  fa- 
voritism used  in  making  the  appointments.  Two  or  three  young 
ministers,  he  said,  whom  he  could  name  if  he  choose,  had  made 
themselves  quite  intimate  with  the  Bishop,  and  especially  with 
the  Presiding  Elders. — These  would,  of  course,  be  well  taken 
care  of.  They  were  young  men  of  promising  talents,  destined 
to  be  ornaments  to  the  church.  It  would  not  do  to  send  them 
away  off  among  the  mountains  or  pine  barrens,  to  hide  their  light 
under  a  bushel.  They  must  be  encouraged  ;  or  how  can  we 
expect  to  retain  them  in  our  connection  ? 

These  remarks  of  brother  S grieved  me  very  much.   And 

especially  was  I  grieved  at  the  spirit  he  seemed  to  manifest. 
Our  good  Bishop,  I  am  sure,  could  not  be  influenced  by  the  con- 
siderations intimated.  His  position  is  certainly  a  trying  one. 
I  should  not  like  to  share  his  anxiety  and  responsibility.  "What- 
2* 


SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER. 

ever  be  the  disposition  that  is  made  of  me,  I  feel  satisfied,  as  I 
have  always  been,  that  it  is  the  Lord  who  sends  me  forth, — for 
His  providence,  I  surely  believe,  guides,  governs,  and  over-rules 
all  the  appointments  that  are  made. 


LAST  DAY  OF  CONFERENCE. — A  few  hours  will  decide  where 
I  am  to  go.  I  wish  I  could  feel  no  concern.  Earnestly  did  I 
pray,  this  morning,  that  I  might  be  endowed  with  a  spirit  of 
resignation.  Mary  never  seemed  so  anxious  before.  Poor  Mary  ! 
She  ought  never  to  have  been  a  Minister's  wife.  Her  mind  is 
too  shrinking  and  sensitive.  And  she  has  too  largely  developed, 
as  the  Phrenologists  would  say,  the  organ  of  inhabitativeness. 
It  is  for  her  sake  that  I  feel  more  and  more  anxious  every  year. 
For  her  sake  I  would  gladly  receive  an  appointment  to  some 
Station,  if  it  so  pleased  my  Heavenly  Master. 


FOUR  O'CLOCK. — It  is  all  over,  and  I  have  now  a  certainty  to 

rest  upon.  I  am  appointed  to circuit  among  the  mountains, 

two  hundred  miles  away.  Brother  T ,  who  was  sent  there 

last  year,  gives  rather  a  discouraging  account  of  the  people  and 
the  country.  The  former  are  poor,  and  the  latter  is  wild  and 
thinly  settled.  Many  of  the  preaching  places  are  fifteen  to  twen- 
ty miles  apart.  And  worse  than  all,  the  country  is  very  sickly 
in  the  fall.  Plenty  of  game  in  the  woods.  But  a  minister  doesn't 
like  to  be  seen  out  shooting  squirrels  and  wild  turkeys. 

"  Well,  Mary,"  said  I,  trying  to  smile  with  a  cheerful  air,  as 
I  met  her  on  returning  home,  after  Conference  had  adjourned  ; 
"  our  lot  for  this  year  has  been  settled.  No  Station,  of  course. 
I  did  not  expect  that."  Her  countenance  fell.  Dear  soul!  She 
had  hoped,  too  fondly,  that  I  would  be  stationed — mainly  be- 
cause, then,  I  would  be  at  home  all  the  time,  instead  of  being 
absent  three-fourths  of  the  year. 


THE  METHODIST  PREACHER.  19 

"  His  will  be  done,"  she  murmured,  looking  upward.  "  The 
servant  must  not  be  greater  than  his  Lord." 

"  We  go  to circuit,"  I  now  said. 

"  O  no,  not  there,  surely !" 

"  Yes,  Mary.  There  the  Bishop  has  appointed  me ;  and  I 
cannot  say  no." 

The  tears  stole  down  her  pale  cheeks  as  she  leaned  her  head 
against  my  shoulder,  and  murmured  sadly : 

"  His  will  be  done.  He  that  tempereth  the  wind  to  the  shorn 
lamb  will  go  with  us." 

"  Yes,  Mary,"  said  I,  drawing  my  arm  around  her — "  He 
that  was  with  Daniel  in  the  lion's  den,  and  walked  with  Sha- 
drach,  Meshach  and  Abed-nego  in  the  furnace,  and  preserved 
them  amid  the  flames,  so  that  not  even  the  smell  of  fire  was 
upon  their  garments,  will  go  with  us.  We  were  wrong  to  have 
permitted  ourselves  to  feel  so  much  concern  about  the  future. 
Will  not  He  who  ruleth  all  things  well,  take  care  of  us  ?  How 
happy  is  our  lot  to  that  of  the  martyrs  of  old,  who  were  per- 
secuted from  city  to  city,  burned  with  fire,  and  hunted  among 
the  mountains  like  wild  beasts !  Truly,  when  I  think  of  these 
faithful  old  servants  of  the  cross,  I  am  ready  to  put  my  hands 
upon  my  mouth,  and  my  mouth  in  the  dust  and  cry  '  guilty,' 
— for,  compared  to  their  lot,  our  lines  have  indeed  fallen  in 
pleasant  places — we  have  a  goodly  heritage." 

"  But  I  am  most  guilty,"  returned  my  wife,  trying  to  look 
cheerful.  "  You  are  always  resigned  and  patient,  and  I  any 
ever  disposed  to  murmur.  When  will  I  learn  the  true  secret  of 
resignation  to  my  Father's  will  ?" 


LOOKING  TOWARDS  MY  NEW  APPOINTMENT. — Up  to  the  close 
of  Conference,  I  have  kept  faithfully  the  forty  dollars  reserved 
for  the  purchase  of  a  horse  so  soon  as  I  should  reach  my  new 
circuit.  But,  over  and  above  that  sum,  I  have  not  five  dollars, 
and  wife  and  children  all  want  new  shoes  ;  and  my  boots  have 
given  way  at  the  sides.  They  have  been  twice  half-soled,  but 
the  uppers  won't  stand  it  any  longer.  My  only  coat  is  thread- 
bare, and  white  at  the  seams.  That,  however,  is  no  matter — it 


20  SKETCHES   OF  LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

will  look  well  enough  back  in  the  woods— although  it  has  rather 
a  shabby  appearance  here  among  so  many  shining  new  black 
coats  But/besides  the  absolute  want  of  shoes  and  boots,  it 
will  cost  us  all  of  thirty  dollars  to  get  to  our  new  home.  Where, 
then,  is  the  horse  to  come  from  ?  Be  still,  desponding  heart 
The  Lord  will  provide.  You  go  forth  in  His  cause,  and  He  will 
take  care  to  supply  the  armor,  if  you  will  always  keep  it  bright 
and  whole !  Yes— yes— weak,  timid,  trembling  soldier  of  the 
Cross !  The  Captain  of  your  salvation  will  go  before  you,  and 
lead  you  on  to  certain  victory.  Only  be  faithful ;  look  not  back 
for  a  moment ;  but  press  forward.  * 

I  have  just  had  a  talk  with  brother  T .     He  called  in  very 

kindly  to  give  me  all  the  advice,  encouragement  and  instruction 
he  could,  in  regard  to  my  new  appointment ;  and  also  to  furnish 
me  with  a  list  of  the  names  of  some  of  the  prominent  brethren. 
There  is  no  parsonage  provided  for  the  preacher's  family.  Nor 
do  the  people  pay  the  rent  of  one.  But  a  log  cottage,  he  says, 
with  a  little  patch  of  ground  for  a  garden  and  pasturage,  can  be 
had  for  about  twenty  dollars  a  year.  A  cow  will  cost  as  much 
more.  But  where  is  the  money  to  buy  her  to  come  from  ?  Ah, 
me!  If  I  had  just  about  as  much  as  it  costs  three  or  four  of  the 
sisters  here  for  ribbons  and  laces,  how  rich  I  should  be !  The 
elegant  dinner-set  upon  which  our  food  is  served  here  every  day, 
the  good  sister  told  my  wife  cost  eighty  dollars.  There  was  a 
plainer  set  for  sixty;  but  the  first  set  had  a  gold  band,  and  she 
liked  it  best,  and  so  gave  twenty  dollars  more  for  the  sake  of  the 
gold  band.  Now,  just  the  price  of  that  gold  band  on  the  dinner- 
set  would  buy  me  a  cow.  Ah  me !  These  thoughts  trouble  me. 
But  hush!  hush!  poor  doubting,  murmuring  heart!  "Thou 
shalt  not  covet  thy  neighbor's  wife,  nor  his  man-servant,  nor  his 
maid-servant,  nor  his  ox,  nor  his  ass,  nor  any  thing  that  is  thy 
neighbor's."  If  the  good  Master  have  prospered  our  brother  ancl 
sister  in  their  basket  and  store,  I  ought  to  be  thankful  to  him  on 
their  account,  that  he  has  given  them  the  good  things  of  life  with 
a  liberal  hand. 

I  met  old  father  H y  this  morning,  with  his  cowhide  shoes* 

and  leather  strings,  wool  hat,  coarse  coat  and  shirt  collar  un- 
bound with  a  neckcloth.  It  is  two  years  since  I  last  saw  him. 
We  talked  for  half  an  hour  about  matters  and  things.  He  is  no 
happier  than  he  used  to  be.  Not  so  happy,  I  think.  The  luxu- 
rious living  of  our  rich  professors  troubles  his  soul.  He  has  lifted 


THE  METHODIST  PREACHER.  21 

his  voice  against  it  faithfully,  and  enforced  his  precepts  of  tem- 
perance and  moderation  by  a  rigid  self-denying  example,  but  it 
is  all  of  no  avail.  There  is  no  diminution  of  the  evil  he  com- 
plains of.  His  own  perverse  heart,  too,  causes  him  great  afflic- 
tion. The  bitter  things  which  he  is  daily  compelled  to  write 
against  himself,  humble  his  soul  to  the  dust.  He  finds,  he  says, 
every  day,  lower  and  lower  depths  of  evil  in  his  own  heart,  the 
discovery  of  which  fills  his  soul  with  the  deepest  anguish.  Dear 
old  man !  His  troubles  and  his  trials  here,  will,  I  trust,  make 
him  richer  there.  I  cannot,  however,  coincide  with  him  in  all  his 
positions — I  cannot  follow  him  in  all  his  examples.  The  boun- 
ties provided  by  nature — her  delicious  fruits — sweet  flowers — 
honey  from  the  rock — were  not  made  in  vain :  nor,  only  for  those 
who  look  not-  for  good  things  beyond  this  world.  They  are  all 
for  us,  if  in  our  power  to  obtain  them,  and,  to  me,  it  seems  a 
greater  sin  to  put  aside  the  blessings  thus  provided  by  our  Fath- 
er's hand,  than  to  receive  them,  and  use  them  with  thankfulness. 

But  he  is  sincere,  and  the  Lord  looks  at  the  heart.  I  wish 
more  of  us  had  a  portion  of  his  self-denying  spirit  I  am  sure 
I  need  some  of  it  to  enable  me  to  bear  up  more  patiently  than 
I  do.  I  wish  I  could  never  feel  troubled  about  any  thing — that 
1  could  really  say  from  the  heart — "  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done." 
I  often  say  so  with  the  lips — but,  alas,  it  is,  I  fear,  only  from  the 
teeth  outwards. 

I  had  written  thus  far  in  my  journal,  when  wife  came  in,  and 
holding  a  stout  bundle  in  her  hand  said,  with  a  pleasant,  cheer- 
ful smile — 

"  What  do  you  think  this  contains,  dear?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  replied  I.  "  What  does  it  con- 
tain ?" 

"  You  shall  see,"  was  her  answer,  as  she  unrolled  it.  There 
were  three  pairs  of  shoes  a-piece  for  the  children,  and  three 
pairs  for  wife ;  enough  to  last  them  all  the  next  year.  Then 
there  were  four  frqcks  a-piece  for'  the  little  ones,  and  four  new 
gowns  for  wife,  besides  various  other  matters,  such  as  muslin 
for  underclothes,  and  nice  warm  canton  flannel,  and  stockings  !  ' 

"  Not  all  for  us!"  I  exclaimed  in  astonishment,  as  Mary  dis- 
played these  before  my  eyes. 

"  Yes,  all  for  us.  May  the  Lord  reward  sister  A for  her 

goodness, — we  cannot."  Tears  of  thankfulness  were  in  her 
eyes. 


22  SKETCHES   OF  LIFE   AND   CHARACTER. 

"Amen!"  I  responded  fervently.  In  the  next  moment  my 
heart  smote  me  for  what  I  had  thought  and  written  about  the 
gold  bands  on  the  dinner-set.  Several  times  since  I  have  turned 
to  the  page  of  my  journal  where  it  lies  recorded,  and  have  taken 
up  my  pen  to  erase  it.  But  I  have  as  often  determined  to  let  it 
remain.  It  presents  a  true  history  of  my  feelings,  and  I  cannot 
blot  it  out. 

After  supper  that  evening — the  last  we  were  to  spend  in  this 

kind  family,  brother  A began  to  ask  about  my  new  circuit, 

and  how  I  expected  to  get  along  on  it.  I  felt  a  little  delicacy 
about  replying  to  his  questions — for  I  could  not  speak  very  en- 
couragingly, and  I  never  like  to  make  a  poor  mouth.  But  he 
was  in  earnest,  and  cornered  me  so  closely  that  I  had  to  tell  all 
the  truth  about  the  means  the  circuit  afforded,  and  my  own  poor 
condition. 

"  And  so  you  still  have  your  '  horse  money'  safe  ?"  said  he, 
smiling,  after  he  had  got  all  out  of  me. 

"  Yes,  that  still  remains  untouched.  But  a  part  will  have  to 
go  for  stage  hire.  That  can't  be  helped.  Though  I  doubt  not, 
something  will  turn  up,  and  that  I  shall  get  a  horse  after  I  am 
there  easily  enough.  Horses  don't  cost  much  in  that  section  of 
the  country,  and  then,  to  add  to  what  is  left  after  paying  our 
fare,  I  hope  to  receive  about  ten  dollars  for  the  sale  of  some 
things  at  the  old  place,  left  in  the  care  of  a  good  brother.  It 

will  all  come  right,  I  know,  brother  A .  It  always  has  come 

right"- 

"  No  doubt,"  he  said.     "  The  Lord  will  provide." 

Brother  A seemed  thoughtful  after  he  had  said  this. 

After  sitting  for  a  little  while,  he  said,  rising, 

"  Come,  brother  B ." 

I  followed  him  up  stairs,  into  his  chamber.  He  closed  the 
door,  and  then  opened  a  large  mahogany  wardrobe,  well  stocked 
with  clothes. 

"  You  and  I  are  about  the  same  size,"  he  .said,  taking  down 
a  black  frock  coat  that  was  very  little  worn.  "  Try  this  and  see 
how  near  it  will  come  to  fitting  you.  I  have  not  worn  it  for  some 
months,  and  it's  a  pity  to  let  the  moths  get  into  it.  There  !"  he 
continued,  as  I  drew  on  the  coat,  "  it  fits  you  just  as  well  as  if 
it  had  been  made  for  you,  and  scarcely  shows  the  wear  it  has 
had.  Let  me  see,"  he  added,  turning  again  to  the  wardrobe, 
what  else  have  we  here  ?  Ah !  This  is  just  the  thing  for  you !" 


THE  METHODIST  PREACHER.  23 

bringing  out  an  overcoat,  made  of  stout  beaver  cloth.  "  You 
will  want  just  such  a  thing  as  this  next  winter.  It  will  keep 
you  as  warm  as  a  toast  while  riding  among  them  snowy  hills. 
1  found  it  'most  too  heavy  for  me  last  winter.  But  to  ride  in  it 
will  be  the  dandy." 

He  did  not  stop  here.  Two  pairs  of  good  pantajoons,  as 
many  vests,  and  a  pair  of  excellent  boots,  were  added  to  these. 
I  tried  to  thank  him,  but  my  voice  was  so  husky  that  I  could 
not  articulate  distinctly.  The  remembrance,  too,  of  what  I  had 
thought  and  written  down  about  the  gold  bands  on  the  dinner- 
set,  with  other  reflections  not  clothed  in  words,  choked  me.  He 
did  not  stop  here.  Next  morning,  as  I  shook  hands  with  him, 
and  bade  him  farewell,  he  left  two  gold  coins  in  my  hand,  say- 
ing, as  he  did  so,  with  a  smile — 

"  Don't  touch  the  '  horse-money,'  brother  B .  A  minister 

can't  walk  around  his  circuit." 

Excellent  man  !  May  the  Lord  reward  him  !  As  for  me,  I 
feel  humbled  before  my  Master  for  my  want  of  faith.  So  many 
— many  times  has  He  brought  me  safely  out  of  the  wilderness 
into  a  clear  place,  and  yet  I  am  unwilling  to  trust  Him. 


MY  NEW  FIELD  OF  LABOR. — Rather  a  "  hard  country"  this, 

as  brother  T said,  truly.     After  staging  it  night  and  day  for 

nearly  four  days,  over  bad  roads  for  more  than  half  the  distance, 
we  arrived  at  M ,  a  small  village  included  in  the  circuit.  Sev- 
eral members  of  the  church  reside  here.  My  wife  was  fatigued 
and  almost  sick  when  we  got  to  this  point.  I  left  her  and  the 
children  at  the  tavern,  and  went  to  look  up  some  of  the  brethren. 
I  had  the  names  of  two  or  three,  and  easily  got  their  direction. 

Brother  P was  the  first  I  called  on.     I  found   him  in  his 

saw  mill,  about  half  a  mile  from  the  village.  He  had  not  yet 
heard  of  the  appointments.  I  showed  them  to  him,  and  told  him 
that  I  was  the  brother  B whose  duty  it  was  to  ride  that  cir- 
cuit for  the  next  conference  year.  He  wanted  to  know  if  I  had 
any  family.  When  I  said  that  I  had,  he  replied  that  he  was 
sorry.  It  was  a  hard  circuit  for  even  a  single  man  :  but  he 
hoped  it  would  do  better  for  me  than  it  had  done  for  others.  He 


24  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

then  returned  with  me  to  the  village,  and  had  my  wife  and  chil- 
dren taken  to  his  house.  He  is  an  unlettered  man,  and  lives  in 
a  very  rough  way  ;  but  both  himself  and  his  wife  were  very  kind 
to  us.  We  staid  with  him  two  or  three  days,  and  I  preached 
once  and  led  the  class  meeting.  Only  six  attended  class,  al- 
though there  were  twenty  names  on  the  class  paper.  Those 
present  were  all  women,  with  a  single  exception.  The  meeting 
was  very  cold. 

After 'learning  all  I  could  about  the  circuit,  and  the  best  place 

for  me  to  settle  down  in,  we  left  M .  Brother  P was 

kind  enough  to  take  us  in  a  wagon  and  drive  us  ten  miles  to 
another  settlement,  that  was  in  the  centre  of  the  district  of  county 
through  which  I  had  to  travel.  He;e  he  advised  me  to  hire  a 
small  log  house — there  are  but  few  of  any  other  kind — and  fix 
my  family  as  comfortably  as  I  could.  It  so  happened  that  there 
was  only  one  house  that  I  could  get.  It  was  built  of  hewn  logs, 
chinked  in  with  mortar,  and  had  a  stick  chimney  and  thatched 
roof.  Within,  there  were  two  rooms  on  the  ground  floor,  and 
the  loft  above.  One  of  the  rooms  below  was  lathed  and  plas- 
tered. The  other  was  not.  Two  acres  of  ground  were  fenced 
in  around  this  poor  tenement ;  neither  plough  nor  spade  had  yet 
entered  any  portion  of  it.  Poor  Mary  looked  blank  when  we 
went  into  this  Chouse.  I  said  nothing  against  it.  It  was  our 
only  chance.  But  none  of  our  things  had  come  yet,  and  could 
not  possibly  arrive  for  a  couple  of  weeks,  as  I  only  wrote  to 
brother  S — - —  where  to  send  them  the  day  before  we  left  P . 

In  this  settlement  there  are  three  Methodist  families, — all  poor. 
One  consists  of  a  widow,  and  two  daughters  nearly  grown. 
Another  of  a  man,  his  wife,  and  three  little  children  ;  and  the 
third  of  a  man  and  his  wife,  both  well  advanced  in  years,  and 
partly  supported  by  the  bounty  of  two  sons  who  work  on  farms 
ten  miles  distant.  The  widow  and  her  daughters  kindly  asked 
us  to  come  and  stay  with  them,  until  our  things  should  arrive. 

We  accepted  the  offer  with  thankfulness.  Brother  P then 

left  us  and  returned  home. 

On  the  next  day  I  found  a  man  who  had  two  horses  to  sell ; 
for  one  he  asked  twenty  dollars  and  for  the  other  thirty.  They 
had  been  pretty  well  worked,  but  seemed  healthy.  The  lowest 
priced  one  was  an  old  horse,  rather  slow,  but  to  all  appearance 
hardy.  The  other  was  a  more  spirited  animal,  and  suited  my 
fancy  much  better  than  the  first  one.  I  debated  the  matter  for  a 


THE  METHODIST  PREACHER.  25 

whole  day,  and  finally  concluded  to  buy  the  cheapest  horse, 
although  I  had  a  presentiment  that  he  would  prove  the  dearest 
in  the  end.  As  my  own  saddle  and  bridle  had  been  left  to  come 
on  with  our  beds,  etc.,  I  borrowed  a  saddle  and  bridle  from  the 
man.  who  sold  me  the  horse,  and  after  giving  five  dollars  to  the 
poor  widow  to  help  her  out  in  providing  for  my  wife  and  children, 
committed  them  to  the  care  of  Him  who  neither  slumbereth  nor 
sleepeth,  and  started  on  a  three  weeks'  ride  through  unknown 
ways  about  my  new  circuit.  The  first  preaching  place  was  ten 
miles  off,  and  the  day  on  which  I  started  for  it,  was,  I  had  been 
informed,  the  regular  day  for  preaching.  I  arrived  at  the  meet- 
ing-house at  half-past  ten  o'clock ;  but  found  no  one  there.  I 
hitched  my  horse  and  tried  the  door,  but  it  was  locked.  I  then 
waited  for  an  hour,  but  no  one  came.  By  this  time  I  began 
to  feel  lonely  and  dispirited. 

At  length,  after  giving  up  all  hope  of  seeing  any  one,  I 
mounted  my  horse  and  rode  away.  But  what  certain  direc- 
tion to  take,  I  knew  not.  I  was  a  perfect  stranger  there,  and 
did  not  know  the  residence  of  a  single  member.  I  had  depend- 
ed on  seeing  some  of  them  at  the  meeting-house,  and  also 
upon  getting  from  them  my  route  to  the  next  preaching-place, 
with  all  other  necessary  information.  My  horse  proved  a  very 
slow  beast,  and  stumbled  frequently.  Turning  his  head  in  the 
direction  opposite  to  that  from  which  I  had  come,  I  rode  in  a 
state  of  uncertaincy  and  despondency.  The  way  was  through 
dense  woods,  the  tall  forest  trees,  some  at  least  a  century  old, 
throwing  a  dark  shade  over  all  below.  Sometimes,  after  ascend- 
ing a  long  hill,  I  would  get  a  brief  glance  of  a  wide,  wild  extent 
of  country,  all  as  thickly  wooded  as  that  in  which  I  was  wan- 
dering I  knew  not  whither.  Then  the  road  would  dive  down 
into  a  deep,  sombre  valley,  and  wind  along  for  miles,  before  it 
again  afforded  any  thing  like  an  extended  prospect  to  the  eye. 
For  full  three  hours  I  kept  steadily  onward,  but  not  a  human  face 
nor  a  human  habitation  met  my  view.  At  length  I  came  to  a 
place  where  the  road  forked.  Which  should  I  take?  There 
was  no  finger  post ;  and  if  there  had  been,  its  indications  would, 
doubtless,  have  been  unintelligible  to  me.  In  my  dilemma  I 
looked  up  for  direction,  and  then  drew  a  lot  as  the  only  means 
of  determining  what  to  do.  The  lot  was  in  favor  of  the  right 
hand  road,  and  so  I  took  that.  I  had  not  gone  far  along  this, 
before  I  perceived  that  it  bent  off  until  it  took  a  course  almost  at 
3 


26  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE   AND   CHARACTER. 

±  angles  with  the  road  I  had  been  travelling,  and  was,  if  pos- 
,  more  lonely  and  dark  than  that.  But  I  pressed  onward,  as 
fast  as  the  weary  animal  under  me  could  be  made  to  go.  Once, 
far  away  to  the  right,  I  saw,  as  I  ascended  a  rising  ground  a 
thin  wreath  of  smoke  curling  up  lazily  from  what  appeared  to  be 
a  break  or  clearing  in  the  forest.  But  I  did  not  attempt  to  gam 
it,  for  I  dared  not  trust  myself  in  the  pathless  wilderness  that 
intervened. 

At  last  the  sun  declined  low  towards  the  horizon.  A  deer, 
frightened  by  the  sound  of  my  horse's  feet,  started  off,  near  me, 
and  went  bounding  fleetly  away,  and  was  soon  lost  to  my  view 
amid  the  tangled  underwood.  The  sight  of  this  animal  sugges- 
ted to  my  mind  a  thought  that  made  the  blood  grow  cold  about 
my  heart.  Night  was  coming  on,  and  I  might  yet  be  miles  and 
miles  away  from  any  human  habitation.  There  were  bears  and 
wolves  among  these  mountains!  Just  as  this  fear  began  to 
oppress  me,  I  heard  a  rustling  in  the  low  bushes  close  by  the 
road,  and,  turning  quickly,  perceived  a  movement  among  them. 
My  breath  was  instantly  suspended,  and  my  heart  ceased  to  beat. 
The  head  of  some  animal  immediately  after  protruded  through 
an  opening,  and  its  large  bright  eyes  became  fixed  upon  me. 
In  the  next  moment,  a  fawn  went  leaping  away,  less  frightened, 
perhaps,  than  myself.  The  perspiration,  as  I  caught  my  breath 
and  the  pulsations  of  my  trembling  heart  were  renewed,  stood 
upon  my  forehead  in  large  drops.  For  half  an  hour  afterwards, 
every  bird  that  fluttered  among  the  bushes,  ever)'  timid  rabbit 
that  rustled  the  leaves  as  it  suddenly  sprung  away  from  the  road 
side,  every  dry  stick  that  cracked  beneath  my  horse's  feet,  caused 
an  instant  suspension  of  my  breath,  and  a  quick  throb  of  my 
coward  heart. 

Onward  I  rode,  weary,  hungry  and  in  alarm,  lest  I  should  be 
compelled  to  pass  the  night  in  the  woods,  exposed  to  imminent 
danger  from  wild  beasts.  At  last  the  sun  went  down,  and  the 
dusky  shadows  of  evening  began  to  render  four-fold  more  gloomy 
and  dark  my  lonely  way,  which,  the  farther  I  progressed,  showed 
less  and  less  indications  of  having  been  much  or  lately  travelled. 
The  thought  of  turning  back,  whenever  it  arose,  was  instantly  dis- 
pelled,— I  had  ridden  since  noon  without  having  seen  a  human 
habitation,  and  now  it  was  sundown.  To  press  onward  was  my 
only  hope.  And  onward  I  urged  my  poor  beast,  who  held  out 
far  better  than  I  at  first  dreamed  he  would,  from  the  poor  promise 


THE  METHODIST  PREACHER.  27 

of  the  first  few  hours'  ride.  Darkness  at  length  came  down — 
darkness  rendered  deep  and  almost  impenetrable  from  the  dense 
foliage  of  the  heavy  forest  trees  that  overhung  the  road,  through 
the  openings  of  which  I  could  now  and  then  get  glimpses  of  the 
stars,  and  sometimes  the  principal  members  of  a  constellation,  as 
here  the  "  bands  of  Orion,"  and  there  the  Pleiades. — Sirius, 
bright  and  smiling  as  the  evening  star — and  ruddy  Aldebaran, 
the  crown  of  the  Hyades.  I  had  ridden  on  for  nearly  an  hour 
after  the  night  had  closed  in,  when  suddenly  there  arose,  seem- 
ingly but  a  few  hundred  yards  from  me,  upon  the  still  air,  a  clear 
wailing  cry  like  that  of  a  distressed  child.  The  blood  fairly  cur- 
dled in  my  veins.  I  reined  up  my  horse,  suddenly.  But  every 
thing  was  as  silent  as  death.  I  sat  motionless  for  several  minutes 
in  my  saddle  and  listened.  But  the  cry  was  not  repeated.  Touch- 
ing the  loose  rein  with  my  hand,  I  urged  my  old  horse  onward. 
Just  as  he  had  taken  a  step  or  two,  clear  and  distinct,  and  as  it 
seemed,  nearer,  rose  that  strange  cry  again,  thrilling  every  nerve 
in  my  body.  Was  it  a  child  lost  in  the  dreary  wilderness  ?  Was 
it  some  wild  animal  of  which  I  had  never  heard  ?  Or  was  it 
something  supernatural  ?  This  thought,  quickened  by  the  repe- 
tition of  the  cry  so  strangely  human,  made  the  blood  trickle 
through  my  veins  and  the  hair  rise  upon  my  head.  And  yet  I 
am  not  a  superstitious  man.  I  am  no  believer  in  supernatural 
appearances.  But,  under  all  the  peculiarities  of  my  situation,  I 
could  not  control  my  feelings  nor  overcome  the  impression  this 
last  suggestion  of  my  fears  had  made. 

Without  pausing  again,  I  hurried  onwards,  that  wailing  cry 
coming  after  me  every  now  and  then  most  appealingly,  yet  grow- 
ing fainter  and  fainter  as  I  kept  on  my  way.  The  feebler  the 
sounds  became,  as  they  continued  to  reach  my  ear,  the  more 
severely  did  my  heart  reproach  me  for  inhumanity,  in  thus  dis- 
regarding the  agonizing  cries  of  what  might  be  a  poor  child  lost 
in  the  woods.  At  length  such  thoughts  became  so  active,  and 
nature  began  to  plead  so  loudly  for  the  little  wanderer,  if  such 
indeed  it  was,  that  as  the  faint  distant  cry  swelled  upon  the  air 
again,  I  turned  my  horse's  head  quickly,  determined  to  retrace 
my  steps  and  recover  the  child.  At  this  moment,  my  ear  caught 
the  distant  barking  of  a  dog.  So  cheering  a  sound  I  think  I  have 
never  heard.  My  old  horse  distinguished  it  at  the  same  moment, 
and  turned  his  head  resolutely  in  the  direction  from  which  it 
came.  I  laid  the  reins  upon  his  shoulders,  and  prayed  for  gui- 


28  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

dance  and  protection  to  the  God  of  Jeshuren.  The  animal  moved 
off  at  a  quick  pace,  directly  into  the  woods,  and  soon  emerged 
ml  a  dear  sp'ace.  Alight  shone  cheerfully  from  what  I  soon 
saw  to  be  a  log  house,  standing  in  a  portion  of  this  clearing.  A 
l"ud  call  brought  an  answering  hallo  from  this  lodge  in  the  wil- 
derness. It  was  the  voice  of  a  man!  Blessed  sound  !  How  it 
thrilled  my  heart  with  joy  ! 

In  a  few  minutes  I  was  at  the  door.  As  I  dismounted,  amid 
a  group  of  two  men,  a  woman,  and  what  seemed  a  maid  ser- 
vant, three  or  four  children  and  as  many  dogs,  who  all  crowded 
around  me,  the  woman,  who  held  a  candle  high  above  her  head, 
ejaculated — 

"  Bless  me !     This  must  be  our  new  preacher  ! 

"  And  so  I  am,  sister!"  I  returned  with  a  leaping  heart,  reach- 
ing out  and  grasping  her  hand—"  God  be  thanked  that  I  am 
among  friends  and  brethren  !" 

"  Yes,  God  be  thanked  !"  said  the  man,  extending  his  hand, 
and  shaking  mine  heartily,  "  that  you  have  reached  our  little 
clearing  safely.  A  painter  has  been  crying  about  all  the  eve- 
ning—Hark !  There !  Don't  you  hear  him  ?" 

At  that  moment,  far  off,  but  clear  and  distinct,  arose  the  cry 
I  had  taken  for  that  of  a  lost  child. 

"  It  is  a  painter,"  the  man  added.  '"  And  he  is  not  far  from 
the  road.  If  he  had  dropped  down  upon  you,  nothing  could  have 
saved  you." 

"  Is  that  the  cry  of  a  panther?"  said  I,  trembling  at  the  bare 
imagination  ot  the  danger  I  had  escaped.  "  Why,  I  thought  it 
was  the  cry  of  a  lost  child,  and  had  just  turned  my  horse's  head 
to  go  in  search  of  it,  when  my  ear  caught  the  barking  of  one  of 
your  dogs." 

A  warm  and  affectionate  welcome,  a  good  supper,  and  pro- 
vender for  my  poor  tired  horse,  whose  faithful  service  upon  this, 
our  first  acquaintance,  had  already  warmed  my  heart  towards 
him,  compensated,  in  a  good  degree,  for  the  disappointments, 
fears,  and  fatigues  of  the  day.  It  appeared,  that,  after  riding 
from  about  twelve  o'clock,  until  nine  at  night,  I  was  still  only 
eight  miles,  direct  course,  from  the  preaching  place.  I  had  come 
one  day  too  soon.  The  regular  appointment  being  for  the  day 
after  that  upon  which  I  had  been  informed  it  was  fixed. 

A  good  bed  and  a  good  night's  sleep  restored  my  wasted  pow- 
er's both  of  mind  and  body.  Next  morning  we  aU  started,  soon 


THE  METHODIST  PREACHER.  29 

after  breakfast,  on  horseback,  for  the  meeting  house,  which  had 
been  built  by  the  several  denominations  residing  within  a  circle 
of  ten  miles,  and  was  used  by  all  in  turn.  We  plunged  imme- 
diately into  the  woods,  and  pursued  our  course  along  a  bridle- 
path, which  was  so  narrow  most  of  the  way,  that  we  had  to  ride 
in  single  file.  In  about  two  hours  we  reached  the  meeting-house. 
A  number  of  horses  hitched  around,  gave  indication  that  many  of 
the  brethren  had  already  arrived.  We  found  them  standing  about 
the  door  in  groups,  waiting  for  the  preacher.  They  were  no  lit- 
tle surprised  at  seeing  me  come  from  the  direction  I  did,  and  in 

company  with  the  family  of  brother  N .  This  was  briefly 

explained,  and  I  received  a  good  deal  of  sympathy.  I  found 
them  all  plain,  rough  farmers,  but  there  was  an  honest  kindness 
about  them  that  pleased  me  much.  I  preached  from  the  text 
"  Take  no  thought  for  the  morrow."  They  listened  with  deep 
attention.  After  preaching,  I  led  the  class.  It  was,  to  my  soul, 
a  refreshing  season. 

After  all  the  services  were  concluded,  I  felt  very  much  inclined 

to  return  home  with  brother  N and  his  excellent  wife ;  but 

as  going  to  their  house  would  take  me  just  eight  miles  out  of  my 
way,  I  accepted  the  invitation  of  a  good  brother  and  sister,  who 
lived  five  miles  distant,  on  my  direct  road.  With  them  I  spent 
two  days,  most  kindly  entertained,  and  then,  with  more  correct 
information  as  to  the  time  of  my  next  appointment,  and  the  places 
of  residence  of  brethren  on  the  road,  I  bade  them  an  affectionate 
farewell,  and  pressed  onward  in  my  journey. 

About  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  I  reached  the  house  of 

a  brother  L ,  and  staid  there  until  the  next  morning.  There 

was  not  much  attention  paid  to  my  comfort.  I  suppose,  how- 
ever, that  they  did  the  best  they  knew  how.  They  appeared 
very  poor,  and  were  untidy  in  every  thing.  I  could  scarcely 
eat  the  food  set  upon  the  table,  for  it  was  not  clean.  They  put 
me  to  sleep  in  the  loft,  where  my  bed  was  upon  the  floor.  But 
I  slept  soundly.  In  the  morning  I  started  again  on  my  lonely 
ride.  My  horse  did  not  go  as  freely  as  on  the  day  before — he 
seemed  dull,  and  stumbled  frequently.  Once  he  fell  on  his 
knees  and  came  near  throwing  me  over  his  head.  I  suspected 
the  cause  to  be  scanty  feed.  I  was  satisfied  of  this  when  I  saw 
how  greedily  he  took  his  oats  at  a  log  tavern  I  reached  about 
twelve  o'clock,  and  where  I  stopped  more  on  old  Tom's  account 
than  my  own.  The  tavern-keeper  would  take  nothing  for  either 
3* 


30  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

my  horse's  oats  or  my  dinner.  Said  he  never  charged  the 
preachers.  I  thanked  him  warmly,  at  the  same  time  that  I  put 
up  a  silent  prayer  that  the  Lord  might  bring  him  into  the  know- 
ledge and  life  of  his  pure  truth. 

That  night  I  reached  the  house  of  brother  M ,  five  miles 

from  the  preaching  place  for  the  next  day.  Was  kindly  received 

Attended  my  appointment  in  the  morning— brother  M could 

not  go,  nor  could  any  of  his  family.  Had  to  ride  alone.  Preached 
to  half  a  dozen  men,  and  eight  women.  After  service  but 
three  sisters  remained  to  class.  One  of  these  was  a  widow. 
The  husbands  of  the  other  two,  non-professors,  waited  for  them 
outside.  It  was  a  cold  time.  Found  sixteen  names  on  the  class- 
paper.  Shall  have  to  enforce  discipline,  even  if  I  offend  some. 
The  average  attendance,  I  found,  on  examining  the  paper,  had 
not  been  above  eight  for  the  whole  year.  No  wonder  so  few 
attend  preaching. 

After  class  was  over,  I  found  that  all  the  male  members  who 
had  attended  preaching  had  gone  home.  The  two  men,  non- 
professors,  who  waited  for  their  wives,  took  them,  and  departed 
likewise,  and  I  was  left  alone  with  the  poor  old  widow.  She 
kindly  invited  me  to  go  home  and  share  with  her  the  little  she 
had  ;  although  she  had  nothing  to  give  my  horse.  For  my  horse's 
sake  I  declined.  Got  from  her  the  route  to  my  next  appointment, 
with  the  names  of  some  brethren  on  the  road,  and  bidding  hei 
farewell,  moved  onward.  About  four  o'clock  I  reached  a  tavern 
and  put  up  for  the  rest  of  the  day  and  night.  It  was  a  vile  place. 
The  landlord  was  a  drunken,  swearing  fellow,  who  paid  not  the 
least  respect  to  my  office  as  a  preacher  of  righteousness.  Several 
men  came  over  at  night,  and  staid  until  ten  o'clock,  drinking, 
swearing,  and  singing  profane  songs,  My  soul  was  exceedingly 
pained.  The  landlady  was  kind  to  me,  and  did  all  she  could 
for  my  comfort.  She  seemed  deeply  mortified  at  the  conduct  of 
her  husband,  and  I  overheard  her  several  times  remonstrate  with 
him,  alluding  to  me  at  the  same  time.  To  this  he  always  re- 
plied with  an  oath — 

" the  minister!  What  do  I  care  for  him  ?  I'm  as  good 

as  he  is,  or  any  of  his  tribe !" 

In  the  morning  I  asked  for  my  bill.  The  man  was  sober,  and 
seemed  ashamed  of  his  brutal  conduct  the  night  before.  He  de- 
clined taking  any  thing,  and  said — 

"  I  shall  always  be  glad  to  see  you  when  you  come  this  way. 


THE  METHODIST  PREACHER.  31 

You  musn't  mind  my  rough  way  last  night.     I'm  not  exactly 
myself  after  I  have  been  drinking." 

'"  Wouldn't  it  be  better  not  to  drink  any,  then  ?"  I  ventured 
to  say. 

"  Perhaps  it  would.  But  I've  got  in  the  way  of  it  now,  and 
can't  well  help  it,"  was  his  reply,  a  little  impatiently. 

I  did  not  urge  the  matter,  for  I  did  ncrt  deem  it  best.  In  bid- 
ding farewell  to  the  kind  mistress  of  the  house,  I  slipped  into  her 
hand  a  tract  on  temperance. 

"  Don't  give  it  to  him,  but  leave  it  in  his  way,  sometime, 
when  he  is  perfectly  sober.  It  may  do  some  good." 

She  looked  her  gratitude  ;  but  did  not  speak.  I  saw  the  rea- 
son. Tears  were  ready  to  gush  from  her  eyes.  We  parted  in 
silence.  Poor  wife  !  Thus  alone  in  this  wild  country,  and  with 
a  drunken  husband !  What  but  the  grace  of  God  that  she  so 
much  needs  can  sustain  her?  I  must  stop  here  on  my  next 
round  and  see  the  effect  of  my  tract. 

******* 


HOME  AGAIN. — During  the  last  week  of  my  three  weeks'  jour- 
ney I  felt  anxious  about  my  family.  I  had  left  them  in  a  strange 
place,  with  a  stranger.  I  was  myself  much  worn  down,  and  felt 
unwell.  The  circuit  was  a  very  large  one,  the  roads  bad,  and 
very  fatiguing  for  my  horse.  I  had  seen  little  to  encourage  me, 
either  spiritually  or  naturally.  At  some  of  my  appointments 
only  three  or  four  attended.  What  pained  me,  particularly,  was 
a  disposition  in  many  to  find  fault  with  my  predecessor.  Some 
had  one  thing  to  say  against  him  and  some  another.  I  did  not 
encourage  this  spirit,  and  thereby,'  I  think,  offended  several  of 
the  brethren  and  sisters.  But  I  can't  help  this.  I  dare  not  give 
a  moment's  countenance  to  evil.  The  most  prominent  cause  of 
complaint  was  his  severe  discipline.  Some  of  his  strong  rebukes 
to  professors  were  repeated  to  me.  They  were,  alas !  too  just. 
There  seems  to  be  but  little  spiritual  life  among  this  people. 
****** 

Discouraged  and  depressed  in  spirits,  and  anxious  about  my 


32  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE   AND   CHARACTER. 

family  and  my  temporal  affairs,  I  urged  my  weary  beast  home- 
wards, after  filling  my  last  appointment.  I  had  met  with  sev- 
eral of  the  Stewards,  in  my  rounds,  but  none  of  them  said  any 
thing  about  the  amount  of  support  I  might  expect  to  receive, 
nor  tendered  me  any  thing  on  account  of  my  salary,  whatever  it 
might  be.  They  did  not  seem  to  think  that  their  preacher 
might  need  a  little  money  to  carry  him  through  his  first  quarter. 
If  the  brethren  generally,  would  only  reflect  upon  the  matter, 
they  would  certainly  be  more  considerate.  The  preacher's  sal- 
ary rarely,  if  ever,  leaves  him  more  than  enough  to  get  to  con- 
ference, and  after  that  to  his  new  appointment.  If  with  a  family, 
he  has  of  course  been  compelled  to  sell  off  a  great  many  of  his 
things — and  the  very  ones  that  he  is  obliged  to  replace  as  soon 
as  he  gets  to  his  new  home.  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten  he  begins 
the  quarter  out  of  money  and  out  of  nearly  every  tiling  necessary 
for  the  comfort  and  the  sustenance  of  his  family.  And  yet,  he 
is  too  often  made  to  wait  until  quarterly  meeting  day,  before  he 
gets  anything  at  all.  During  all  that  time  his  mind  cannot  but 
be  harassed — and  worse  than  that,  his  family  suffer  many  priva- 
tions. Why  don't  the  people  think  of  these  things  ? 


Home  at  last!  Thanks  to  my  Heavenly  Father,  all  are  well ! 
My  wife  is  much  more  cheerful  than  I  expected  her  to  be.  She 
says  the  poor  widow  and  her  daughters  have  been  very  kind  to 

her.  Our  things  have  come,  and  also  a  letter  from  brother  S 

enclosing  twenty  dollars,  obtained  for  the  sale  of  the  things  I  left. 
Twenty  dollars  !  I  feared  lest  not  over  ten  dollars  would  be  got 
for  them.  Take  courage,  poor  doubter !  He  that  feedeth  the 
young  lions  will  feed  thee. 

I  have  now  thirty-eight  dollars  in  money,  after  paying  freight 
and  charges  on  my  things.  This  will  go  a  good  way  here,  but 
still,  it  is  a  sum  very  inadequate  to  the  supply  of  our  wants  for 
three  months ;  especially,  as  we  shall  have  to  buy  a  good  many 
things  absolutely  necessary  to  house-keeping. 

I  talked  this  matter  over  with  Mar}-,  yesterday,  which  was  the 
day  after  I  had  come  back.  Neither' of  us  can  see  how  we  are 
to  get  along.  The  house  we  looked  at  when  we  first  came  can 
be  had  for  twenty-five  dollars  a  year.  We  have  determined  to 
take  it,  for  we  do  not  think  it  right  to  burden  our  kind  sister  any 
longer.  We  shall  have  to  buy  a  bedstead,  and  some  chairs  and 


THE  METHODIST  PREACHER.  33 

kitchen  things.  Our  crockery-ware  was  packed  in  with  our 
bedding.  So  that  will  not  have  to  be  replaced.  But  we 
want  so  many  things  that  I  do  not  see  that  we  will  have  any 
money  to  live  on  after  we  get  fixed.  But,  doubtless,  the  Lord 
will  provide.  He  has  never  yet  forgotten  us.  "  I  have  been 
young,  and  now  am  old  ;  yet  have  I  not  seen  the  righteous  for- 
saken, nor  his  seed  begging  bread." 


Well !  we  are  now  in  our  new  abode,  and  quite  snugly  fixed. 
Things  look  much  more  comfortable  than  I  could  have  expected. 
And  what  is  better,  five  dollars  is  all  the  money  we  have  yet 

found  it  necessary  to  lay  out.     Mary  frankly  told  Sister  E , 

at  whose  house  we  have  been  staying,  just  how  we  were  situated. 
She  at  once  saw  the  rest  of  our  friends  here,  and  the  three  fami- 
lies joined  together  and  most  generously  loaned  us  all  they  could 
spare  towards  fitting  up  a  house.  It  makes  my  heart  run  over 
with  gratitude  to  see  their  noble  emulation.  From  each  family 
we  had  sent  us  two  chairs,  making  six.  These  were  all  we 
needed.  Then  one  brought  us  a  pot,  and  another  a  pan,  and  so 
on,  until  we  were  supplied  with  nearly  every  article  necessary 
for  our  comfort.  A  common  pine  table,  costing  a  dollar  and  a 
quarter,  was  as  good  to  us  as  a  mahogany  one  that  would  cost 
ten  dollars.  A  family  in  the  settlement  had  a  bedstead  which 
they  wished  to  part  with.  Three  dollars  and  a  half  procured  this. 
The  children's  bed  for  the  present  is  made  up  on  the  floor.  Sis- 
ter E has  a  good  cow,  and  more  milk  than  she  wants;  She 

says,  we  musn't  think  of  buying  a  cow  at  present.  That  we  can 
have  just  as  much  milk  as  we  need,  if  I  will  pay  half  what  the 
cow's  feed  costs,  and  half  the  price  of  keeping  her  through  the 
next  winter ;  by  which  we  will  save  just  the  cost  of  a  cow,  and 
just  half  the  cost  of  keeping  her !  That  settles  the  business  of 
the  cow,  which  has  troubled  my  mind  a  great  deal.  I  couldn't 
help  again  thinking  of  the  twenty  dollars  it  cost  for  the  gold 
bands  on  Sister  A 's  dinner  set,  and  how  I  had  allowed  my- 
self to  covet  the  money  she  had  thus  expended,  that  I  might  be 
able  to  buy  me  a  cow.  But  I  have  no  need  of  one  now — I  am 
better  without  one,  for,  besides  the  price  to  be  paid  in  her  pur- 
chase, it  would  cost  me  just  twice  as  much  to  keep  her  as  it  will 
now  cost  me  for  all  the  milk  I  want.  True,  there  is  the  butter 


34  SKETCHES   OF  LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

she  would  have  made  us,  which  I  shall  have  to  buy.     But  we 
can  easily  do  without  that,  if  necessary.     It  is  only  a  luxury. 
******* 

Brother  D came  over  this  morning.     He  says  he  shall 

have  a  few  idle  days  during  the  next  week,  and  will  bring  his 
horse  and  plough  and  break  up  my  lot  for  me,  and  help  me 
plant  a  part  of  it  in  potatoes.  He  has  plenty  of  seed.  He  will 
also  help  me  lay  out  a  garden,  and  get  every  thing  that  is  ne- 
cessary into  the  ground.  Could  I  ask  more  ?  May  the  good 
Lord  sow  many  precious  seeds  in  his  heart,  and  water  them  with 
the  dews  of  heavenly  grace. 

******* 

Two  weeks  have  passed,  and  I  must  again  be  absent  from 
home.  I  shall  leave  my  family  very  comfortable,  and  in  the 
care  of  kind  sisters  who  have  already  became  much  attached  to 
my  wife.  She  always  makes  friends.  That  mild,  gentle  face, 
and  those  earnest,  sincere,  yet  unimpassioned  tones,  soon  win 

their  way  to  the  heart.  Sister  E 's  oldest  daughter  will  stay 

with  her  in  my  absence. 

With  what  different  feelings  do  I  start  out  to  ride  around  my 
circuit  now !  "  Bless  the  Lord,  Oh  my  soul  !  and  forget  not  all 
his  benefits."  Poor  doubter  that  I  am !  When  I  can  see  the 
bright  sun  and  feel  his  warmth,  I  can  believe  that  he  is  in  the 
sky.  But  when  clouds  gather  about  his  radiant  face,  and  hide 
him  from  my  view,  I  tremble  lest  he  has  vanished  from  the  hea- 
vens, and  will  never  again  look  smilingly  down  upon  me.  I 
often  repeat  to  myself— 

"  Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense — 

But  trust  Him  for  His  grace  ; 
Behind  a  frowning  providence 

He  hides  a  smiling  face. 
His  purposes  will  ripen  fast, 

Unfolding  every  hour, 
The  bud  may  have  a  bitter  taste, 
Bui  sweet  will  be  the  flower," 

and  try,  as  I  do  so,  to  realize  in  my  own  heart  the  confidence 
those  lines  so  sweetly  express.  While  I  feel  their  inspiring  influ- 
ence, I  think  I  will  never  again  have  one  distrustful  thought. 
But,  alas !  No  sooner  does  the  sky  become  overcast,  and  ~the 
waters  become  troubled,  then,  like  sinking  Peter,  I  begin  to  cry 
out  in  despair.  When  shall  I  obtain  the  grace  that  will  enable 


THE  METHODIST  PREACHER.  35 

me  to  honor  my  master  by  trusting  in  His  sure  word  of  promise, 
in  sickness  or  in  health,  in  prosperity  or  in  adversity,  in  life  or 
in  death  ?  For  this  degree  of  grace  I  daily  pray. 


FIRST  QUARTERLY  MEETING. — Three  months  have  passed 
away,  and  our  first  quarterly  meeting  has  been  held.  I  wish  I 
could  say  that  it  has  strengthened  my  hands.  Attendance  very 
thin.  Only  two  Stewards  present,  and  not  over  one  third  of  the 
class  leaders.  I  had  little  power  in  preaching,  for  the  people 
seemed  to  have  no  faith.  Warmed  up  in  the  love-feast.  My 
own  soul  much  refreshed.  A  few  of  the  sisters  were  melted  to 
tears. 

Only  received  thirty-five  dollars.  Stewards  sorry  it  wasn't 
more — but  had  done  the  best  they  could  to  make  collections. 
The  people  were  very  poor.  Some  of  them  didn't  see  that  much 
money  in  a  whole  year.  Hoped  I  would  be  able  to  get  along 
until  next  quarterly  meeting,  when  a  better  collection  would  no 
doubt  be  made.  Get  along  !  Oh,  yes,  I  shall  get  along.  Have 
always  got  along,  thanks  be  to  Him  who  feedeth  the  ravens ! 
True,  all  my  money  has  been  gone  for  some  weeks,  and  I  have 
been  compelled  to  run  up  a  bill  at  the  store — how  often  have  I 
resolved  never  to  do  that  again — but  the  Lord  will  provide.  He , 
has  never  yet  failed  me.  Potatoes  don't  cost  much,  and  they 
make  wholesome  food.  Wife  is  a  good  economist,  and  turns 
every  thing  to  best  account.  But  what  could  the  people  be 
thinking  about?  Only  thirty-five  dollars  to  keep  me  for  six 
months — three  months  before,  and  three  months  after  the  pay- 
ment— how  do  they  think  I  can  live?  Suppose  I  had  not,  pro- 
videntially, had  about  forty  dollars  in  money  when  I  came  on 
the  circuit,  a  thing  unusual  for  a  Methodist  preacher  ?  What 
would  my  poor  wife  and  children  have  done  ?  But  hush  !  hush  ! 
unhappy  doubter !  Providentially  you  had  about  forty  dollars, 
and  has  not  all  things  needful  for  you  been  provided  ? 


36  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND   CHARACTER. 

SECOND  QUARTERLY  MEExao—Money  out  four  weeks  ago. 

Bill  at  the  store  again.     Sister  E 's  cow  has  gone  dry ! 

Havn't  had  any  milk  for  children  for  several  days.  Little  Mary 
said,  this  morning-"  Pa,  I  don't  like  this  hommy-I'd  rather 
have  mush  and  milk.  Why  don't  you  buy  a  cow  ?  You  used 
to  have  a  cow."  It  hurt  me  a  good  deal.  ,,..,.  ., 

"  I  think  we'd  better  give  up  our  coffee,  dear,"  I  said  to  wife 
after  breakfast,  "  and  instead  of  drinking  coffee  ourselves,  buy 
milk  for  the  children. 

But  wife  said  no.  It  was  not  for  herself  that  she  said  this, 
but  for  me.  She  knew  how  almost  indispensable  to  me  was  my 
cup  of  coffee.  I  urged  the  matter.  But  she  remained  resolute. 

We  were  yet  debating  the  question,  when  sister  D called  in. 

She  said  she  had  just  heard  that  sister  E 's  cow  had  gone  dry, 

and  that,  of  course,  we  had  been  without  milk  for  nearly  a  week. 
She  brought  over  half  a  gallon,  and  said  we  could  have  a  pint 
night  and  morning  from  her  cow  as  well  as  not. 

All  in  good  time  again !  Thanks  to  Him  who  put  the  gener- 
ous thought  into  the  mind  of  sister  D . 

Started  next  day  for  quarterly  meeting.  Brother  G ,  Pre- 
siding Elder,  attended.  Enquired  how  I  had  got  along,  and 
how  much  quarterage  I  had  received.  Couldn't  give  a  very  flat- 
tering account.  Brother  G preached.  Was  pretty  severe 

on  the  people  for  their  neglect  of  duties — especially  in  regard  to 
their  minister's  temporal  wants.  Offended  several.  Got  thirty 
dollars  this  time.  Returned  home  much  depressed  in  spirits. 
Found  wife  down  with  a  fever,  and  out  of  her  head.  Went  for 
the  doctor — three  miles.  He  didn't  seem  very  willing  to  come, 
but  couldn't  refuse.  Poor  prospect  of  making  much  money  out 
of  the  preacher.  Some  experience  in  that  line,  no  doubt.  Fever 
continued  to  rage  for  several  days,  and  my  heart  to  tremble  for 
the  result.  But  the  Lord  raised  her  up.  Blessed  be  His  holy 
name  !  Paid  bill  at  the  store  ;  had  eighteen  dollars  left  for  all 
expenses  during  next  three  months.  But  these  will  be  lighter. 
A  good  crop  of  potatoes,  corn  and  beans,  with  other  vegetables, 
and  our  milk  given  to  us,  will  go  a  good  way  towards  supply 
ing  our  wants.  Wife  don't  care  about  meat,  and  I  am  away 
from  home  two-thirds  of  the  time  Won't  be  much  to  buy. 

Clothes  hold  out  very  well,  thanks  to  brother  and  sister  A , 

of  conference  memory !  May  they  have  golden  bands  around 
every  thing — yea,  about  their  very  hearts ! 


THE  METHODIST  PREACHER.  37 

Had  to  leave  home  while  wife  was  still  very  feeble.  Felt 
anxious. '  Gone  three  weeks, — met  in  some  places  with  rather  a 

cool  reception.  People  didn't  like  brother  G 's  home  talk. 

It  isn't  every  one  that  can  bear  to  have  his  faults  too  plainly 
pointed  out.  As  I  drew  near  home  again,  began  to  be  fearful. 
Thought — "  Suppose  wife  has  had  a  relapse  and  died  ?"  The 
cold  sweat  oozed  from  every  pore  at  this.  I  looked  up  and  pray- 
ed for  grace  !  Tried  to  have  confidence  in  my  Heavenly  Father. 
But  poor  human  nature  pleaded  too  strongly.  I  could  not  think 
of  losing  my  companion,  and  at  the  same  time  say  from  my 
heart—"  Thy  will  be  done." 

After  preaching  at  the  last  appointment,  ten  miles  from  home, 
I  declined  all  invitations  to  dine  and  stay  all  night.  Mounting 
my  horse,  I  pushed  him  into  a  quick  trot,  and  kept  on  at  that 
speed  all  the  way  home.  He  made  the  distance  in  one  hour  and  a 
half.  When  I  came  in  sight  of  my  house,  I  was  in  a  fever  of 
anxiety.  As  I  drew  near,  I  perceived  the  door  to  be  shut  and 
the  window  blinds  down.  No  living  creature  was  visible.  This 
strengthened  my  worst  fears.  I  soon  gained  the  house,  hitched 
my  horse  at  the  garden  fence,  and  threw  open  the  gate.  I  had 
made  two  or  three  rapid  strides  up  the  walk,  when  the  door  was 
quickly  opened,  and  a  dear  and  smiling  face  presented  itself, 
upon  which  were  no  traces  of  illness !  Crowding  past  their  mo- 
ther rushed  out  my  two  little  ones,  making  the  air  resound  with 
their  glad  voices.  I  took  them  in  my  arms — mother  and  child- 
ren, and  thanked  God  for  all  his  mercies. 


THIRD  QUARTERLY  MEETING. — A,  very  good  time.  Six  pro- 
bationers taken  into  full  membership.  One  a  farmer,  well  to  do 
in  the  world.  My  old  swearing  tavern-keeper  and  his  wife  were 
present.  She  told  me  that  the  tract  on  temperance  I  had  left 
with  her,  had  awakened  his  mind  to  a  sense  of  his  real  condi- 
tion. It  had  been  like  a  nail  in  a  sure  place.  He  had  not  taken 
a  drop  of  liquor  since.  About  a  month  ago  he  gave  up  tavern- 
keeping,  and  commenced  farming — his  old  business.  She 
seemed  very  happy.  He  was  one  of  the  best  of  men,  she  said, 
when  he  did  not  drink.  "  In  the  morning  sow  thy  seed,  and  in 


38  SKETCHES    OF  LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

the  evening  withhold  not  thine  hand;  for  thou  kno west  not 
whether  shall  prosper,  either  this  or  that,  or  whether  they  both 
shall  be  alike  good." 

Stewards  seemed  more  cheerful.  Paid  me  sixty  dollars.  This 
is  better  than  I  had  expected.  Could  get  along  on  sixty  dollars 
a  quarter  well  enough. 

******* 

Begin  to  look  forward  again  to  Conference  ;  three  months  more, 
and  my  labors  will  close  here.  Can't  say  that  I  feel  much  re- 
luctance in  going  away.  And  yet,  I  have  met  with  many  good 
people  on  the  circuit,  whom  I  shall  be  sorry  never  to  see  again. 
As  for  the  good  I  have  done,  very  little  is  apparent.  Last  year, 
forty  new  members  were  added  to  the  church  on  my  circuit.  I 
thought  that  a  poor  addition.  Thus  far  only  twelve  have  been 
taken  on  probation  here,  and  two  of  them  did  not  stand  out 
their  six  months'  trial.  I  have  been,  indeed,  but  an  unprofitable 
servant,  troubled  more  about  my  own  temporal  welfare  than  the 
salvation  of  souls. 


FOURTH  AND  LAST  QUARTERLY  MEETING. — Thinly  attended. 
Only  three  official  members — two  stewards  and  one  leader — 
present.  Could  pay  me  but  twenty-five  dollars.  Regretted  it 
very  much.  But  people  didn't  get  much  money,  and  let  it  go 
reluctantly.  Twenty-five  dollars !  When  I  counted  over  this 
meagre  sum  I  felt  choked.  I  tried  to  express  my  thanks  for  the 
poor  pittance,  but  the  wrords  stuck  in  my  throat. 

Twenty-five  dollars  !  What  shall  I  do  ?  My  bill  at  the  store 
is  nearly  that.  And  the  doctor,  besides  attending  my  wife  through 
her  illness  with  fever,  has  been  called  in  several  times  to  the  chil- 
dren. I  cannot  expect  him  to  doctor  me  for  nothing.  In  two 
weeks  we  must  leave  for  Conference,  and  pay  stage  hire  for  two 
hundred  miles.  Twenty-five  dollars !  And  there  is  a  quarter's 
rent  to  be  paid — six  dollars  and  a  quarter.  But  idle  despon- 
dency will  not  accomplish  any  thing.  I  must  up  and  be  doing. 

My  bill  at  the  store  was  just  twenty  dollars.  Not  many  char- 
ges against  me  for  luxuries.  Paid  it,  and  took  a  receipt. 


THE  METHODIST  PREACHER.  39 

Enough  money  left  to  pay  the  rent.  That  has  been  settled. 
And  now  what  is  there  left  for  the  doctor?  Nothing!  Yes, 
there  is  the  old  horse.  But  what  shall  I  do  on  my  next  circuit  ? 
I  can't  walk  around  it.  And  if  I  sell  my  horse  to  pay  the  doc- 
tor, where  will  the  money  come  from  to  pay  stage  fare  to  Con- 
ference ?  Truly,  I  am  in  a  great  strait.  But  why  should  I  feel 
troubled  ?  All  will  come  out  right.  The  Captain  of  our  salva- 
tion will  not  send  his  faithful  soldier  out  to  battle  at  his  own 
charge.  But  have  I  been  a  faithful  soldier  ?  Alas !  no.  And 
there  lies  the  ground  of  my  want  of  confidence.  If  I  had  been 
as  faithful  as  I  should  have  been,  I  would  no't  fear. 

Well !  I  have  been  to  see  the  doctor.  I  rode  over,  and  walked 
home.  He  looked  grave  when  he  saw  me.  He  knew  my  errand, 
and  expected,  no  doubt,  a  poor  mouth,  if  not  a  declaration  that 
I  had  nothing  to  pay  him.  When  I  asked  for  his  bill  he  took  it 
from  his  desk,  and  handed  it  to  me.  It  was  already  made  out. 
He  knew  the  conference  year  was  up.  How,  I  don't  know,  for 
he  is  not  a  member  of  our  church.  The  bill  was  twelve  dollars. 
Not  a  heavy  nor  unreasonable  charge. 

"  I  am  going  to  sell  my  horse,  Doctor,"  said  I,  after  learning 
the  amount  due,  "  and  will  then  settle  your  bill." 

This  did  not  seem  to  satisfy  him.  He  sat  with  his  eyes  upon 
the  floor  for  some  minutes,  and  then  said — 

"  How  much  do  you  expect  to  get  for  your  horse  ?" 

"  I  can't  tell,  Doctor,"  I  replied.  "  I  paid  twenty  dollars  for 
him,  and  he  has  turned  out  better  than  I  expected.  I  suppose  he 
ought  to  bring  the  same  that  I  gave  for  him." 

"  Let's  look  at  him,"  he  said,  rising  and  going  towards  the 
door. 

"  Not  much  to  brag  of!"  he  remarked,  half  contemptuously, 
after  eyeing  my  poor  old  horse  for  a  little  while. 

I  felt  somewhat  indignant,  more  at  his  manner  than  his  words. 
I  had  become  attached  to  my  horse,  and  could  not  bear  to  hear 
him  spoken  of  so  lightly. 

"  He  is  a  patient  beast  and  can  endure  much  fatigue,"  re- 
plied I. 

"  Has  he  no  fault  ?"  As  the  doctor  asked  this,  he  eyed  me 
with  a  penetrating  look,  evidently  to  detect  any  thing  like  a  false- 
hood in  my  reply.  This  for  a  moment  made  me  feel  an  emotion 
of  anger ;  but  in  the  next  I  had  forgiven  him.  Poor  man  !  Did 
he  think  I  would  put  my  soul  in  jeopardy  for  a  few  dollars  ? 


40  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

«  He  has  but  one  serious  fault,"  I  returned      "  He  stumbles." 

"  He  stumbles,  does  he  ?  A  dear  bargain  at  any  price,  if  he 
should  break  his  owner's  neck !" 

"  He  has  not  broken  my  neck,"  said  I. 

«  jj0 but  he  may  do  it  before  you  get  home  with  him. 

The  pitcher  that  has  been  to  the  well  ninety-nine  times  may  be 
broken  at  the  hundreth  time." 

"  Very  true.     But  I  am  in  no  concern  on  that  account." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  expect  to  get  for  him  ?" 

"  I  shall  try  and  get  as  much  as  I  gave  for  him." 

"  You'll  not  be  able  to  do  that.  An  old  broken  down  hack 
like  him  don't  bring  good  prices  in  these  parts.  You  paid  too 
much  for  him  by  five  dollars." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Certainly  I  do.  And  more  than  that,  I  know  so.  I  could 
have  bought  him  for  fifteen  dollars  the  day  before  you  gave  twen- 
ty for  him." 

This  information  pained  me  a  good  deal ;  not  on  account  of 
the  five  dollars  I  had  overpaid,  but  because  a  man,  who  had 
given  me  every  reason  to  think  well  of  him  since  I  had  lived 
here,  should  have  deliberately  done  so  evil  an  act,  as  to  charge 
me,  a  poor  preacher,  five  dollars  more  for  a  horse  than  he  had 
offered  him  for  only  the  day  before. 

"  If  you  choose,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  will  take  your  horse  at 
fifteen  dollars,  and  pay  you  the  difference  between  that  sum  and 
my  bill.  You  will  find  it  hard  to  make  a  sale  of  him,  I  am  in- 
clined to  think." 

This  offer  I  had  the  decision  of  mind  at  once  to  decline.  The 
doctor  was  not  pleased  at  my  refusal.  And  I  thought  there  was 
something  in  his  manner  that  said  I  didn't  intend  to  pay  him  if 
I  could  help  it.  I  felt  this  deeply.  But  my  determination  was 
fixed. 

"  If  you  choose  to  take  him  at  twenty  dollars,  and  pay  me  the 
difference,  you  can  do  so,"  replied  I.  "  If  not,  I  will  make  the 
effort  to  sell  him  elsewhere,  and  then  settle  your  bill." 

Seeing  that  I  was  in  earnest,  after  grumbling  a  good  deal,  he 
finally  paid  me  eight  dollars  in  money,  receipted  my  bill,  and 
took  my  horse.  I  then  walked  home,  a  distance  of  some  three 
miles,  thankful  that  my  doctor's  bill  was  off  my  mind,  and  quite 
disposed  to  look  up  for  aid. 

On  the  next  day  met  a  man  riding  my  old  horse.     Stopped 


THE  METHODIST  PREACHER.  41 

him,  and  asked  what  he  had  paid.     Twenty-five  dollars,  said 

he.     Doctor had  asked  thirty,  but  twenty-five  was  all  he 

would  give.     Thought  he  had  made  a  very  good  bargain.    Told 

brother  D what  I  had  done,  and  what  the  doctor  had  said 

about  the  horse  having  been  offered  at  fifteen  dollars.  Found 
that  this  was  not  so — that  twenty-five  had  been  asked  for  the 
animal  before  I  came,  and  that  the  owner  put  the  price  to  me  at 

twenty,  because  I  was  a  preacher.     Doctor ,  he  said,  was 

a  great  lover  of  money,  and  had  been  known  to  sell  a  widow's 
cow  more  than  once  for  his  fee  ! 

Unhappy  man  !  If  thy  soul  should  be  required  of  thee  this 
night,  whose  would  all  these  things  be  that  thou  art  setting  thy 
heart  upon?  How  will  all  this  read,  when  thy  book  of  life  is 
opened  in  the  other  world  ?  Lord,  touch  his  heart  with  the  finger 
of  thy  love,  and  melt  it  down  with  emotions  of  human  sympathy. 
"  What  is  a  man  profited  if  he  gain  the  whole  world  and  lose  his 

own  soul  ?" 

******* 

In  five  days  more  we  must  start  for  P .  But  how  are  we 

to  get  there  ?  Only  five  dollars  in  money,  and  wife  must  have  a 
new  bonnet.  She  cannot  go  tox  conference  in  that  old,  soiled, 
misshapen  thing,  which  has  already  been  worn  for  two  years. 
Her  clothes  are  in  a  poor  state.  But  there  is  no  remedy  for  that. 
Shoes  will  have  to  be  bought.  Well,  what  is  to  be  done  ?  Sell 
our  beds  and  bedding  ?  What  else  can  we  do  ?  I  have  no 
money  to  go  to  conference,  and  yet  I  must  go  there.  Wife 
couldn't  bear  this  thought.  The  beds  had  been  given  to  her  by 
her  mother  when  we  were  married. 

"  We  shall  want  beds  just  as  much  on  our  new  circuit  as  on 
this,"  she  said — 

"  True,  Mary.  But  how  are  we  to  get  there  ?  And  you  know 
we  can't  stay  here.  This  is  no  longer  our  home.  Our  only 
course  is  to  go  to  conference,  and  trust  to  the  Lord  beyond  that. 
He  has  taken  care  of  us  thus  far,  and  will  not  leave  us  nor  for- 
sake us." 

While  we  were  yet  talking,  brother  P came  in.  He  had 

ridden  over  from  M to  tell  me,  that  there  was  a  school  va- 
cant, with  an  income  of  four  hundred  dollars,  that  could  be  had 
for  me,  if  I  had  any  wish  to  locate.  I  saw  Mary's  face  brighten 
at  this  intelligence,  particularly  as  brother  P went  on  to  de- 
scribe the  neat  little  cottage  provided  for  the  teacher,  with  its 


42  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

garden,  shrubbery,  and  fruit  trees.  How  my  poor  heart  flutter- 
ed  !  Here  was  an  offer  of  ease  and  competence,  with  the  blessed 
privilege  of  being  always  with  my  family.  On  the  other  hand,  all 
was  doubt  and  uncertainty.  I  was  reduced  to  the  lowest  ebb. 
Yearly  had  my  little  means  wasted  away,  and  I  was  growing 
poorer  and  poorer.  My  horse  was  gone,  and  the  money  expend- 
ed, and  I  must  sell  my  bed  and  bedding  in  order  to  get  the  means 
whereby  to  reach  conference.  The  temptation  was  strong. 

I  told  brother  P that  I  would  decide  the  next  day.  He 

said  he  would  come  over  again  and  learn  my  decision,  urging  me 
at  the  same  time  to  accept  the  offer.  As  soon  as  he  had  left  the 
house,  I  took  Mary's  hand,  without  speaking,  and  led  her  back 
into  our  bed  room,  and  after  closing  the  door,  knelt  down,  with 
her  by  my  side,  and  prayed  most  fervently  to  the  Lord  to  guide 
us  in  this  crisis,  to  the  knowledge  of  his  will.  We  then  arose, 
and  I  said — "  Mary,  let  us  be  on  our  guard.  This  may  be  only 
a  temptation  ior  the  trial  of  our  faithfulness.  We  have  put  our 
hands  to  the  gospel  plough.  Let  us  be  careful  how  we  look 
back.  Hitherto  the  Lord  has  helped  us.  We  have  had  many 
fears,  and  have  too  often  suffered  ourselves  to  fall  into  doubt  and 
distrust.  But  out  of  every  trouble  the  Lord  has  brought  us.  He 
has  often  made  our  desert  to  blossom  as  the  rose,  and  sent  unto 
our  thirsty  land  springs  of  water.  And  he  will  still  do  it.  Are 
there  no  precious  souls  to  save,  no  foes  of  the  church  to  con- 
quer, that  we  feel  so  willing  to  lay  off  the  armor  and  put  up  the 
sword  ?  Does  the  world  lie  no  longer  in  the  power  of  the  Wicked 
One  ?  Is  the  command,  '  Go  ye  into  all  the  world,  and  preach 
my  gospel  to  every  creature'  no  longer  in  force  ?" 

I  paused,  Mary  had  already  laid  her  head,  as  was  her  wont, 
when  her  spirit  became  oppressed  with  pain,  or  struggled  vio- 
lently in  temptation,  upon  my  bosom.  The  tears  were  flowing 
freely  from  her  eyes.  She  made  no  reply — and  I  continued. 

"  Having  started  in  the  race,  shall  we  look  back  ?  Once  upon 
the  house  top,  shall  we  descend  to  take  any  Oring  out  of  the 
house?  Having  tasted  of  heavenly  manna,  shall  we  turn  back 
unto  the  flesh  pots  of  Egypt  ?  Soon  will  this  toilsome  strife  be 
over — and  then  how  sweet,  how  blessed  will  be  the  Master's 
voice—'  Well  done,  good  and  faithful  servants !  enter  ye  in  to 
the  joy  of  your  Lord.'  Let  us  fall— when  fall  we  do— with  our 
loins  girt  about,  and  our  feet  shod  ;  with  our  armor  bright,  and 
the  sword  of  the  spirit  in  our  hands.  A  watchman  on  the  walls 


THE  METHODIST  PREACHER.  43 

of  Zion,  with  enemies  of  the  church  within  and  without,  I  feel 
that  I  dare  not  give  up  my  place.  A  soldier  of  the  cross  with 
the  battle  yet  to  win  and  the  legions  of  satan  thronging  to  the 
contest,  I  dare  not  make  an  inglorious  retreat.  If  fall  I  must, 
let  it  be  with  my  face  to  the  foe.  Our  blessed  Lord  endured 
even  the  death  of  the  cross  for  us.  And  shall  the  servant  be 
greater  than  his  master  ?  No — no.  Let  us  patiently  bear  the 
cross  and  endure  the  pain — His  word  will  support  us.  Every 
thing  looks  dark  a-head.  The  sky  is  full  of  clouds — the  thunder 
rolls  heavily  above — the  waves  are  mountain  high,  and  we  seem 
just  about  to  strike  upon  the  foaming  and  roaring  breakers.  But 
why  give  way  to  childish  fears? — Our  Captain's  at  the  helm! 
Will  He  not  guide  our  frail  bark  safely  over?  He  will,  Mary, 
He  will.  Let  us  still  trust  Him !" 

As  I  said  this — my  own  spirit  became  re-assured — my  own 
heart  was  warmed  with  reviving  confidence.  My  wife  lifted  her 
head  from  my  bosom  and  looked  me  in  the  face.  A  holy  calm 
pervaded  her  countenance.  There  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes, 
although  they  yet  glistened  upon  her  cheeks. 

"  I  am  ready  to  go  with  you  to  prison  or  to  death  !"  she  said, 
earnestly.  "  If  we  would  wear  the  crown,  we  must  endure  the 
cross.  Blessed  be  His  holy  name,  that  we  did  not  fall  in  that 
temptation!" 

For  the  rest  of  that  day,  my  heart  glowed  with  heavenly  con- 
fidence. I  was  on  a  spiritual  mountain,  with  the  air  around  me 

untainted  by  any  thing  earthly.  When  brother  P came  to 

get  my  answer,  I  was  enabled  to  say  no,  without  a  struggle. 


STARTING  FOR  CONFERENCE  AGAIN. — We  have  had  an  auc- 
tion, and  sold  off  every  thing  but  our  clothes.  But  few  attended 
the  sale,  and  there  was  little  competion  in  bidding.  After  pay- 
ing for  hand-bills  giving  notice  of  the  sale,  and  the  auctioneer's 
commission,  I  had  thirty  dollars.  Five  dollars  of  this  sum  have 
been  spent  in  procuring  some  necessary  things — among  them  a 
new  bonnet  for  wife.  We  are  now  all  ready  and  about  starting, 

with  money  enough  to  take   us  to  P ,  and  but  little   over. 

Well,  it  is  mv  duty  to  go  to  Conference,  and  the  Lord  has  proyi- , 


44  SKETCHES   OF  LIFE   AKD    CHARACTER. 

ded  the  means  to  take  me  there.     Beyond  that  let  me  trust  Him. 
He  will  not  forsake  me. 


CONFERENCE.— I  could  not  help  feeling  a  wish  to  be  assigned 
to  the  family  of  brother  and  sister  A .  But  it  has  been  or- 
dered otherwise.  We  are  not  so  pleasantly  situated,  but  have 
no  cause  of  complaint.  To  meet  once  more  with  my  brethren 
strengthens  me  much. 


LAST  DAY. — Appointments  have  been  read.  I  have  prayed 
hard,  during  the  whole  season,  that  the  Lord  would  keep  me  re- 
signed to  His  will,— To  send  me  any  where  that  He  might  think 
best.  Mar^-,  too,  has  been  patient,  and  willing  to  trust  the  Good 
Master. 

"  Well,  dear,"  she  said,  in  a  quiet  voice,  when  I  came  in, 
while  a  placid  smile  was  upon  her  face,  "  to  what  part  of  the 
Lord's  vineyard  are  we  to  go  next!" 

«  Jo  £ ,"  I  said,  as  calmly  as  I  could  speak. 

For  that  she  was  not  prepared.  The  tears  came  into  her  eyes, 
that  were  instantly  turned  upwards.  Then  leaning  her  head 
against  me,  as  I  sat  down  by  her  side,  she  murmured — "  He 
has  been  far  better  to  us  than  all  our  fears.  Weak,  doubting, 
unfaithful  servants  that  we  have  been !  But — " 

And  as  that  but  was  uttered  in  a  changed  voice,  in  which  the 
doubts  she  had  just  condemned  were  too  plainly  apparent,  she 
lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  me  with  concern  upon  her  face. 

— "  But  how  can  we  go  to  E ?  On  a  Station  the  minis- 
ter's family  must  live  in  some  kind  of  respectability,  and  we 
havn't  a  dollar  with  which  to  buy  furniture." 

"  H-u-s-h !"  replied  I,  laying  my  fingers  upon  her  mouth. 
"  The  parsonage  is  furnished  expressly  for  the  preacher." 

Mary's  head  again  fell  upon  me — "  Poor,  weak,  distrustful 
murmurer!"  she  half  whispered.  "  When  wilt  thou  learn  thy 
lesson  of  confidence  ?" 


(  € 


CONQUERING   A  PEACE/' 


"  He  shall  do  it !" 

"  But  he  says  he  won't." 

"  I'll  show  him  a  trick  worth  two  of  that— see  if  I  don't !" 

"  I  told  him  just  what  you  said,  and  he  replied,  quite  angrily, 
that  he  would  do  no  such  thing.  That  if  you  expected  to  get 
any  thing  out  of  him  by  threat  and  bluster,  you  were  mistaken." 

"Did  he  say  that?" 

"  He  did." 

"  Very  well !  I'll  show  him  that  he's  mistaken  his  man.  I 
never  did  permit  any  one  to  do  just  as  he  pleased  with  me,  and 
never  will.  Right  is  right,  and  I'll  stand  up  to  it  while  I've 
breath  in  my  body.  I'll  spend  my  last  dollar,  before  I'll  suffer 
a  man  like  him  to  do  me  an  injury  and  then  insult  me  when  1 
ask  for  reparation." 

"  He  says  there  are  two  sides  to  this  question." 

"  Indeed !  So  there  are.  A  right  side  and  a  wrong  side. 
Before  he's  done  with  the  matter,  he'll  find  who  stands  on  the 
wrong  side  ;  and  that  to  his  cost.  Talk  to  me  about  bluster- 
indeed  !  I'll  show  him  something  like  bluster  before  we've 
done." 

And  thus  Mr.  Absalom  Pendergast  fumed  away,  because  a 
pair  of  oxen  belonging  to  his  neighbor,  Thomas  Peters,  had  bro- 
ken into  his  corn-field,  just  as  the  green  blades  wrere  a  foot  high, 
and  spent  the  night  there,  doing  no  small  injury  to  the  young 
crop.  Most  men  would  say  he  had  cause  for  loss  of  temper, 
especially  as  Peters  very  cooly  refused  to  pay  the  damages  as 
assessed  by  Pendergast.  But  let  us  define  clearly  the  position  of 
the  belligerents. 

The  fence  around  Mr.  Pendergast's  field  was,  certainly,  not  in 
the  best  condition  in  the  world  ;  and  as  soon  as  Peters  learned 
that  his  oxen  had  been  making  depredations  on  his  neighbor's 

45 


46  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

vounz  corn,  he  at  once  assumed  that  they  must  have  entered 
through  some  broken  panel.  Still  he  felt  grieved  at  what  had  oc- 
curred, and  was  about  starting  to  see  his  neighbor,  when  he  was 
surprised  by  the  reception  of  a  bill,  after  this  tenor  :— 

"  Thomas  Peters,  to  A.  Pendergast,  Dr. 
For  damages  done  by  oxen  in  corn-field,  $10." 

"  Mr.  Pendergast  cannot,  certainly,  be  in  earnest  in  sending 
me  this  bill  ?"  said  the  surprised  farmer  to  the  messenger  who 
brought  it. 

"  Yes  sir ;  he  is  in  earnest." 

"  Very  well ;  do  you  tell  Mr.  Pendergast  from  me,  that  I  am 
very  much  astonished  at  his  even  dreaming  I  would  pay  such  a 
bill.  Tell  him,  that  I  say,  if  he  wishes  to  grow  corn  he  must 
keep  good  fences." 

The  messenger  departed,  and  gave  the  reply  of  Peters  in  even 
a  warmer  and  more  offensive  manner  than  it  was  uttered.  Of 
course,  Pendergast  fired  up  at  this  insulting  language,  and  sent 
back  the  bill,  with  a  threat  of  consequences  if  the  offending 
neighbor  did  not  immediately  come  to  terms.  Peters  had  grown 
no  cooler  by  reflection.  The  more  he  thought  about  the  demand 
which  had  been  made  upon  him,  the  more  it  fretted  him.  When 
the  bill  came  a  second  time,  with  some  sharp  words  and  threats 
that  had  grown  sharper  since  they  left  the  lips  of  Pendergast,  he 
was  angry,  and  made  no  effort  to  conceal  what  he  felt. 

Before  the  day  had  passed,  Thomas  Peters  received  a  sum- 
mons to  appear  before  the  magistrate  in  a  neighboring  village,  to 
answer  in  a  suit  for  trespass  brought  against  him  by  Pendergast. 
The  trial  was  fixed  for  that  day  one  week. 

As  soon  as  this  matter  became  noised  about,  the  friends  of  the 
two  antagonists  were  much  surprised,  and  there  was  a  good  deal 
of  talk  and  no  small  interest  felt  on  the  subject.  Those  to  whom 
Pendergast  talked,  said  that  he  was  right  in  requiring  his  neigh- 
bor to  pay  damages ;  and  those  with  whom  Peters  talked,  said 
he  was  right  in  not  paying  them.  Some  who  thus  took  sides  were 
in  earnest,  while  others,  of  the  all-things-to-all-men  class,  favored 
the  side  of  one  or  the  other,  as  they  happened  to  be  with  either 
the  plaintiff  or  defendant,  and  fanned  with  a  double  breath  the 
antagonist  fires. 

But  all  did  not  do  this;  there  was  one  exception  in  Mr.  Good- 
year, a  true  and  faithful  man  in  every  thing  that  pertained  to 
him.  As  soon  as  he  heard  what  had  occurred,  his  first  desire 


47 

was  to  reconcile  matters.  He  went  to  Mr.  Pendergast  and  en- 
quired the  cause  of  his  extreme  proceeding  against  his  neighbor. 

"  It  is  a  plain  case,"  was  the  reply.  "  His  oxen  broke  into 
my  field  and  destroyed  my  corn ;  he  refuses  to  pay  the  damage. 
— What  am  I  to  do  ?  He  has  destroyed  my  property  and  will 
not  pay  for  it.  Must  I  calmly  pocket  the  loss  ?  No — Absalom 
Pendergast  is  not  so  meek  a  man  as  that.  He  never  allows  any 
one  to  ride  rough  shod  over  him  in  this  fashion." 

"  Did  you  represent  the  matter  to  him  fairly,  Mr.  Pendergast  ? 
I  have  never  found  Peters  a  very  unreasonable  man." 

"  I  sent  him  a  bill  for  damages." 

"  Before  seeing  him  ?" 

"  Certainly.  I  had  no  wish  to  see  him  about  the  matter.  I 
felt  too  much  provoked  at  his  allowing  a  pair  of  unruly  oxen  to 
forage  about  at  night.  He  ought  to  have  known  that  they  would 
do  damage  somewhere." 

"  Perhaps  he  did  not  know  they  were  out." 

"  He  ought  to  have  known  it  then.  If  he  shouldn't,  how 
should  I  ?" 

"  I  think  it  would  have  heen  much  better  if  you  had  seen  Pe- 
ters before  you  commenced  a  suit:  I  am  certain  he  would  have 
done  what  was  right." 

"Not  he!" 

"  Hasn't  he  always  borne  the  character  of  an  upright  man? 
Such  I  have  always  found  him." 

"  You  never  know  a  man  until  you  try  and  prove  him.  I 
understand  Thomas  Peters  now,  very  well,  and  he  will  under- 
stand me  too,  I  am  thinking,  before  we  are  done  with  each  other. 
I  shouldn't  have  called  in  the  law  to  aid  in  settling  this  matter, 
if  he  hadn't  sent  me  an  insulting  message,  as  well  as  refused  to 
pay  the  bill." 

"  And  you  are  determined  to  go  on  with  the  matter?" 

"  Certainly  ;  I  am  not  a  man  to  look  back  and  hesitate  after 
I  have  once  taken  my  course.  His  oxen  destroyed  my  corn  and 
he  refuses  to  pay  the  damage.  Isn't  that  a  plain  case  ?  I  think 
it  is." 

"  I  am  sure  it  would  be  better  if  you  would  see  Mr.  Peters, 
and  talk  over  the  case  with  him  before  going  any  farther.'' 

"  And  get  insulted  for  my  pains.  No,  no  ;  I  have  too  much 
respect  for  myself  to  run  the  risk  of  an  insult  to  my  face,  from  a 
man  who  sends  me  an  insulting  reply  to  a  just  demand." 


48  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND   CHARACTER. 

Finding  he  could  do  nothing  with  Pendergast,  Mr.  Goodyear 
called  upon  Mr.  Peters.  He  found  him  quite  as  much  incensed 
as  the  other,  and  alleging  that  he  was  perfectly  well  satisfied  that 
Pendergast's  rickety  old  fence  must  have  been  broken  down,  or 
his  oxen  would  never  have  made  their  way  into  the  corn-field. 
He  had  never  known  them  to  break  into  any  enclosure,  and  did 
not  believe  they  had  in  this  instance.  As  to  their  having  done 
ten  doSars  worth  of  damage,  that  was  preposterous.  Ten  cents' 
worth  of  seed-corn  would  renew  the  hills,  and  that  part  of  the 
crop  would  only  come  in  three  or  four  weeks  later  than  the  other, 
and  be  fully  matured  before  frost.  As  to  law,  he  could  have  that 
to  his  heart's  content.  Before  he  was  done,  he  would  find  that  the 
law  could  be  used  by  one  man  as  well  as  another. 

Mr.  Goodyear  remonstrated  against  this  retaliatory  spirit,  but 
it  was  of  no  use.  The  course  pursued  towards  him  had  thrown 
Peters  into  a  violent  passion,  and  he  could  neither  hear  nor  see 
reason. 

When  the  trial  came  on,  the  two  men  stood  confronting  each 
other,  scowling  and  muttering.  Pendergast  made  a  plain,  brief 
Statement  of  his  case,  which  seemed  very  clear  to  the  magistrate. 
He  had  witnesses  to  swear  that  they  had  seen  the  oxen  of  Peters 
in  his  corn-field,  and  had  helped  to  drive  them  out.  To  this  Pe- 
ters opposed  the  statement  that  the  fences  of  his  neighbor  were 
shamefully  out  of  repair ;  and  produced  a  witness  who  swore 
that  in  passing  the  field  of  Pendergast  on  the  day  previous  to  the 
damage  being  done,  he  noticed  a  rail  out  of  the  panel  through 
which  the  oxen  had  broken. 

This  was  to  Pendergast  unexpected  testimony,  and  he  met  it 
with  a  hasty  denial. 

"  Then  you  mean,"  said  the  magistrate,  with  some  sternness, 
"  to  charge  the  witness  with  perjury  ?" 

"  Oh  no — no,  not  that ;  but  he  must  be  mistaken." 

"  But  I  have  sworn  that  I  saw  it,"  said  the  witness,  with  a 
flushed  face,  and  a  firm  voice. 

"A  pair  of  oxen  could  not  get  in  through  a  fence  in  which 
only  one  rail  was  out,"  urged  Pendergast,  turning  to  the  magis- 
trate. 

"  But  to  leave  a  small  opening  in  a  fence  is  only  to  induce  an 
animal  to  make  a  larger  one,  especially  if  within  the  enclosure 
there  be  any  thing  to  tempt  his  appetite.  If  a  man's  fences  are 
not  whole,  who  has  he  to  blauie  for  tresspass  but  himself?  If 


"CONQUERING  A  PEACE."  49 

three  rails  are  enough  for  a  fence,  why  do  we  have  four  and 
sometimes  five  ?     Or  why  do  we  have  fences  at  all  ?"  said  Peters. 

The  magistrate  did  not  see  the  case  so  clear,  now,  by  any 
means.  In  fact,  he  felt  rather  puzzled  by  it.  There  had  been 
a  tresspass ;  but  who  was  most  to  blame  there  for  it  was  hard  to 
tell.  If  two  or  three  rails  had  been  out  of  the  fence,  or  none  at 
all,  the  case  would  have  been  clear  enough  for  either  the  defen- 
dant or  the  plaintiff.  But  the  one  rail  puzzled  him.  An  ox 
could  not  get  through  a  fence  with  only  one  rail  out ;  but  if  the 
fence  had  been  whole,  there  would  have  been  no  tresspass.  Pen- 
dergast  was  to  blame  for  not  keeping  his  fence  in  order,  and  Pe- 
ters was  to  blame  for  letting  his  oxen  run  loose.  After  taking  a 
day  to  consider  about  the  matter,  he  concluded  to  dismiss  the 
case  by  requiring  Peters  to  pay  costs  ;  thus  dividing  the  matter 
between  the  two  litigants — the  one  suffering  the  loss  of  the  corn, 
and  the  other  bearing  the  cost  of  prosecution. 

Of  course  this  decision  satisfied  neither  party.  There  was  an 
appeal,  and  security  given  for  costs.  From  kind  and  obliging 
neighbors,  the  two  men  now  became  bitter  enemies,  and  deter- 
mined to  do  each  other  as  much  injury  as  possible.  A  retaining 
fee  of  twenty  dollars  was  paid  by  each,  to  secure  the  services  of 
a  lawyer,  by  whom  he  was  assured  that  his  case  was  perfectly 
clear,  and  that  the  court  would  decide  in  his  favor  without  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation. 

"  Press  the  matter  through  with  the  least  possible  delay,"  said 
Pendergast  to  his  legal  representative. 

"  You  may  trust  me  for  that,"  replied  the  lawyer,  with  a  bland 
smile. 

"  Let  there  be  no  unnecessary  delay.  I  wish  the  case  tried 
at  the  first  term,"  Peters  said  to  his  lawyer,  and  received  for 
reply  that  all  should  be  as  he  desired. 

It  was  nearly  three  months  before  the  trial  could  come  on. 
But,  somehow  or  other  it  was  put  off  for  another  term.  Why, 
the  clients  could  not  clearly  make  out.  Their  respective  lawyers 
stated  to  them  the  reason  plainly  enough,  in  legal  phrase,  but  the 
meaning  of  what  they  said  was  about  as  apprehensible  to  them 
as  Greek.  One  thing,  however,  was  clearly  understood,  and 
that  was  the  demand  of  ten  dollars  from  each  for  costs  that  had 
to  be  paid  in  order  to  get  the  suit  continued. 

Meantime  the  belligerents  showed  their  teeth  at  each  other 
whenever  they  happened  to  meet. 
5 


50  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

It  was  a  year  before  the  case  came  fairly  to  trial,  and  then  it 
was  thrown  out,  and  each  party  required  to  pay  his  own  costs, 
the  judge  severely  reprimanding  both  complainant  and  defendant 
for  ever  suffering  a  matter  in  which  both  had  a  share  of  blame, 
and  which  ought  to  have  been  settled  amicably  in  five  minutes, 
to  come  into  court.  The  cost  to  each,  including  lawyer's  fees, 
was  just  one  hundred  dollars. 

This  result  by  no  means  improved  the  state  of  feeling  that  had 
for  a  whole  year  existed  between  the  parties.  Pendergast  had 
lost  half  as  much  as  his  whole  field  of  corn  would  yield,  and  Pe- 
ters more  than  his  yoke  of  oxen  were  worth.  Both  were  fretted, 
angry  and  unhappy,  and  made  their  families  extremely  uncom- 
fortable. 

A  brief  calm  succeeded  to  this  strife  of  passion,  and  then  there 
was  war  again.  Peters  commenced  a  suit  against  Pendergast, 
to  recover  the  hundred  dollars  costs  and  fees  he  had  been  com- 
pelled to  pay.  On  the  trial,  he  proved  that  the  son  of  Pender- 
gast, who  had  been  sent  by  his  father  to  his  house  on  an  errand, 
aftef  dark  on  the  same  night  the  oxen  destroyed  the  corn,  had, 
in  leaving  his  premises,  left  the  gate  open,  through  which  his 
oxen  had  made  their  way  out  upon  the  public  road,  and  after- 
wards through  Pendergast's  broken  fence  into  his  corn-field. 
The  witness  who  proved  this,  was  explicit  in  his  testimony,  and 
no  cross-questioning  of  defendant's  counsel  could  confuse  him, 
nor  cause  him  to  waver  in  the  least  from  his  first  distinctly-given 
evidence.  All  efforts  to  invalidate  this  unexpected  testimony 
were  vain.  It  had  to  be  admitted. 

Peters  gained  his  cause,  after  a  year  of  disturbing  and  unpro- 
fitable litigation.  But  Pendergast  appealed.  Another  year  of 
suspense,  disquietude  and  angry  excitement  succeeded,  and  the 
higher  court  affirmed  the  decision.  There  was  no  help  for  Pen- 
dergast. The  hundred  dollars  had  to  be  paid,  and  also  two  hun- 
dred dollars  of  fees  and  costs  besides. 

Four  hundred  dollars  spent  in  the  effort  to  recover  ten  dollars, 
was  rather  a  serious  matter,  and  so  it  was  felt  by  the  original 
litigant.  He  was  mortified,  chagrined  and  angry  beyond  mea- 
sure ;  and  unhesitatingly  declared  that  the  witness  who  had 
sworn  that  his  son  had  left  Peters'  gate  open,  had  perjured  him- 
self. This  charge  came  to  the  ears  of  the  witness,  who  com- 
plained to  Peters.  That  individual,  irritated  by  three  years  of 
legal  annoyances,  and  feeling,  in  the  diminished  productiveness 


"  CONQUERING    A    PEACE."  51 

of  his  farm,  the  effects  of  a  diverted  mind,  had  no  very  kind  feel- 
ings for  the  man  who  had  occasioned  him  both  trouble  and  loss. 

"  Sue  him  for  defamation,"  said  he  to  the  witness.  '"  I'll 
stand  by  you.  Lay  the  damages  at  five  thousand  dollars." 

This  advice  was  taken.  In  about  a  week  Pendergast  was 
startled  by  the  appearance  of  an  officer  with  a  writ,  summoning 
him  to  answer,  in  a  criminal  prosecution,  for  defamation  of  char- 
acter. This  was  a  serious  matter,  aud  so  he  felt  it  to  be.  When 
he  called  upon  his  lawyer,  that  gentleman  looked  grave ;  but 
promised  to  defend  him  to  the  utmost  of  his  ability.  The  loss 
of  four  hundred  dollars  in  costs  of  suits  and  damages,  and  the 
loss  of  an  equal  amount  from  neglecting  his  farm,  more  or  less, 
for  some  years,  had  made  money  matters  rather  close  with  Mr. 
Pendergast,  who  was  not  what  a  broker  would  call  very  "  sub- 
stantial." He  was  heartily  sick  of  law,  and  wished,  from  the 
bottom  of  his  heart,  that  he  had  not  been  the  fool  he  was  to  get 
involved  in  its  meshes,  from  which  there  now  seemed  no  hope  of 
extrication.  A  suit  for  defamation  of  character,  with  damages 
laid  at  five  thousand  dollars,  especially  when  he  was  conscious 
that  there  were  more  than  a  dozen  .persons  who  could  prove  that 
he  had  charged  the  witness  with  perjury,  was  no  joke.  Dama- 
ges of  half  the  amount,  if  recovered,  would  utterly  ruin  him.  In 
fact,  without  selling  his  farm,  he  could  not  raise  five  hundred 
dollars. 

But  all  this  fear  availed  not.  He  had  excited  the  enmity  of  a 
man  whose  wrath  was  not  easily  appeased.  The  suit  wras  regu- 
larly docketed  for  trial.  By  the  aid  of  his  lawyer,  it  was  de- 
ferred for  one  or  two  terms ;  but  there  was  a  limit  to  this.  The 
case  at  last  came  fairly  before  the  court;  witness  after  witness 
was  examined ;  and  the  evidence  produced,  looked  clear  and 
unequivocal.  It  was  plain  that  Pendergast  would  be  found 
guilty. 

The  trial  had  occupied  two  days,  and  the  prosecuting  attorney 
and  defendant's  counsel  had  nearly  brought  their  war  of  words 
to  a  conclusion.  The  court  had  adjourned  the  case  over  until 
the  next  morning,  when  the  counsel  of  Pendergast  was  to  make 
one  more  effort  in  his  behalf,  and  then  the  case  would  go  to  the 
jury. 

Two  more  anxious  days  the  unhappy  man  who  had  conjured 
up  all  this  trouble  for  himself,  had  never  before  spent.  When 
night  came,  he  returned  home,  deeply  depressed  in  spirits,  and 


52  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

most  sadly  regretting  his  own  folly  in  placing  himself  in  such  a 
desperate  condition.  Tea  awaited  him  ;  and  soon  after  he  came 
in,  he  sat  down  to  the  table  with  his  wife  and  his  four  young 
children,  for  whose  happiness  he  was  devoting  cheerfully,  the 
best  efforts  of  his  life.  Their  home  was  a  pleasant  one,  and  in 
it  and  around  it  were  gathered  many  comforts,  the  reward  of 
years  of  patient  labor.  Here  the  first  sweet  moons  of  his  happy 
wedded  life  had  been  spent ;  here  his  children  had  been  born  ; 
and  this  spot  he  had  fondly  believed,  would  be  to  them,  even  in 
manhood,  the  homestead  to  which  their  eyes  and  hearts  would 
turn.  Alas!  now  there  hung  upon  only  a  slender  thread  the 
chance  of  its  remaining  in  his  possession.  He  looked  around 
upon  the  bright  young  faces  that  circled  his  well-filled  board, 
happily  unconscious  of  the  danger  with  which  they  were  threat- 
ened, and  his  heart  sunk  within  him.  He  looked  into  the  trou- 
bled countenance  of  his  wife,  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears.  A 
few  mouthfuls  of  food  were  eaten  merely  for  appearances  sake  ; 
but  it  passed  along  his  palate  without  leaving  a  sign  of  its  pe- 
culiar flavor.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  felt  so  wretched.  Now, 
clear  as  if  lit  by  a  sunbeam,  was  his  own  folly  apparent  to  his 
mind.  The  imperative  demand  which  he  had  made  upon  his 
neighbor  for  damages,  he  saw  and  felt  to  be  an  unjust  demand, 
for  he  and  his  were  far  more  to  blame  for  the  loss  of  his  corn, 
trifling  in  reality,  than  Peters  had  been.  So  much  for  haste  and 
passion !  But  consciousness  of  error  came  too  late.  He  had 
sapped  the  foundations  of  his  own  welfare,  and  now  the  ruins 
were  about  falling  upon  his  head. 

After  tea  Pendergast  retired  to  a  room,  apart  from  the  family, 
that  he  might  be  alone.  The  presence  of  his  wife  and  children 
oppressed  him.  In  about  an  hour  his  lawyer  called  to  see  him. 

"  Things  look  very  dark ;  do  they  not?"     Pendergast  said. 

"  Rather.  But  I  have  thought  of  a  way  by  which  we  may- 
bring  Peters  to  terms." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  quickly  asked  the  client,  a  light  passing  over 
his  face. 

"  The  prosecutor,  is  of  course,  only  his  tool.  That's  all  un- 
derstood. He  furnishes  the  means  for  carrying  on  the  suit.  If 
he  says  to  the  prosecutor,  <  The  suit  must  be  abandoned  '  all 
proceedings  will  of  course  stop." 

"  Yes ;  I  understand  that.  It  is  a  mere  process  of  retaliation  ; 
in  fact,  a  part  of  a  system  of  persecution,  to  which  this  man  has 
HotprrompH  tn  subiect  me." 


"  CONQUERING    A    PEACE."  53 

"  Exactly  ;  and  there's  where  we've  got  him.  Since  the  court 
adjourned  to  day,  I  have  found  a  man  who  is  ready  to  swear  that 
he  heard  Peters  say,  over  and  over  again,  that  he  meant  to  ruin 
you,  and  would  do  it  before  he  was  done  ;  and  that  he  was  the 
prime  mover  in  the  present  suit,  and  the  prosecutor  only  his 
agent.  He  says,  moreover,  that  he  can  point  to  at  least  three 
others  who  can  swear  to  the  same  thing.  In  fact,  this  man 
called  upon  me  and  stated  this,  because,  he  said,  it  was  a  shame 
to  see  you  driven  to  the  wrall  in  the  malicious  manner  Peters  was 
doing  it.  We  must  instanly  have  him  indicted  for  a  conspiracy 
to  ruin  you.  I  will  see  that  the  writs  are  served  on  him  as  early 
in  the  morning  as  possible,  and  also  see  his  lawyer,  and  give 
him  as  clear  a  view  of  his  client's  position  as  I  am  able.  As  I 
am  to  address  the  court  in  the  morning,  I  will  consume  as  much 
time  as  possible,  in  order  that  he  may  have  full  space  for  reflec- 
tion ;  and  then  I  will  make  an  effort  to  keep  the  matter  from  the 
jury  a  day  longer,  by  calling  in  these  witnesses  with  their  testi- 
mony, which  will  have  great  weight  with  the  court  in  fixing  low 
damages,  if  the  trial  should  proceed,  and  the  jury  should  find 
you  guilty.  But  I  am  pretty  well  convinced,  that  by  this  move 
we  shall  '  conquer  a  peace '  instanter.  I  don't  believe  Peters 
will  be  willing  to  stand  a  suit  in  which,  if  cast,  he  runs  a 
chance  of  six  month's  or  a  year's  imprisonment,  besides  dama- 
ges." 

All  this  did  not  produce  much  effect  upon  Pendergast.  The 
light  that  had  flitted  over  his  countenance  died  away,  and  the  old 
dark  shadow  fell  upon  it.  He  shook  his  head  after  his  lawyer 
had  ceased  speaking,  and  said,  half  sadly,  yet  in  a  firm  voice — 

"  No  ;  I  have  had  enough  of  law.  '  Better  to  bear  the  ills  we 
have,  than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of.'  I  am  sick  of  an- 
tagonism— sick  of  the  court-house — sick  of  law.  Let  the  worst 
come  if  it  will,  I  am  passive.  I  will  bow  my  head  to  the  storm 
and  stand  still." 

"  But,  my  dear  sir, " 

Before  the  lawyer  could  finish  his  sentence  another  visitor  was 
announced,  and  Mr.  Goodyear  entered.  This  gentleman  had 
been  watching  the  progress  of  the  last  suit  between  his  neigh- 
bors, with  much 'regret,  and  was  pained  to  see  that  the  issue  was 
likely  to  prove  most  disastrous  to  Pendergast,  whose  hasty  tem- 
per had  involved  him  in  a  serious  difficulty.  He  had  called  in, 
from  the  kindness  of  his  heart,  to  talk  over  the  matter  with  him, 
5* 


54  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

and  see  if  some  mode  of  adjustment  could  not  be  suggested  be- 
fore the  worst  came  to  the  worst.  He  was  ready  to  do  all  in  his 
power  as  a  mediator.  After  a  few  allusions  had  been  made  to 
the  state  of  affairs,  the  lawyer  said,— 

"  There  is  one  way  of  escape,  and  the  only  one,  that  I  can 
see."  And  then  he  remarked  upon  the  position  in  which  Peters 
was  placed.  "  A  suit  for  conspiracy,"  he  continued  "  would 
«  conquer  a  peace  '  instanter.  There  would  be  no  more  fighting 
unless  we  chose  to  go  on,  which,  of  course,  we  would  not,  if  he 
came  to  terms.  But  my  client  seems  apathetic  on  the  subject. 
He  is  unwilling  to  make  this  move." 

"  Why  so  ?"  asked  Mr.  Goodyear. 

The  lawyer  looked  at  Pendergast,  meaning  thereby  that  he 
should  answer  for  himself.  And  he  did  so,  saying, — 

"  Because  I  have  had  enough  of  fighting,  and  want  peace  at 
any  sacrifice.  I  was  to  blame  at  the  first.  My  suit  against  Pe- 
ters was  an  unjust  one,  although  I  thought  I  was  right.  But  if 
I  had  kept  cool,  waited  a  little  while,  and  heard  reason,  I  should 
have  acted  very  differently.  But  blind  passion  lead  me  on ;  and 
here  is  the  result.  As  to  *  conquering  a  peace,'  as  my  counsel 
says,  that  is  a  much  easier  thing  to  talk  about  than  to  do.  Pride, 
passion,  and  confidence  of  success,  may  lead  your  enemy  to  re- 
sist, month  after  month  and  year  after  year,  and  both  at  last  be 
compelled  to  retire  from  the  field,  because  unable  any  longer  to 
contend.  No — no ;  I  have  done  fighting.  Let  the  suit  go  on. 
Let  my  enemy  glut  his  vengeance ;  and  then,  I  trust,  he  will  be 
satisfied.  I  deserve  punishment  for  my  folly,  though  hardly  more 
than  I  have  already  received.  But  I  suppose  Peters  thinks  dif- 
ferently." 

"  The  case  against  Peters  is  certainly  quite  clear,"  suggested 
Mr.  Goodyear.  "  He  has  laid  himself  open  to  a  prosecution." 

"  No  doubt  of  it.  But  I  have  no  feeling  of  retaliation  left  in 
me.  All  desire  to  punish  him  is  gone.  Let  him  finish  his  work 
of  revenge,  and  then,  I  trust,  I  shall  have  peace." 

"  I  will  see  you  again  this  evening,"  said  Mr.  Goodyear,  rising 
suddenly,  and  leaving  the  room  before  Pendergast  had  time  to 
oppose  his  hasty  departure. 

Not  long  after  he  stood  at  the  door  of  Peters'  dwelling.  He 
found  the  owner  in  the  midst  of  his  family.  After  sitting  with 
him  a  short  time,  he  asked  to  have  some  private  conversation 


"  CONQUERING   A   PEACE."  55 

with  him,  and  they  retired  to  another  room.  As  soon  as  they 
were  alone,  he  said — 

"  You  must  pardon  my  interference  in  a  matter  that  you  may 
think  does  not  concern  me.  But  your  good,  as  well  as  the  good 
of  the  man  you  are  persecuting  so  bitterly,  has  led  me  to  step 
forward,  in  the  hope  that  you  will  accept  of  my  mediation." 

"  You  allude  to  Pendergast,  I  presume,"  said  Peters,  coldly. 

"I  do." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  him.  He  slandered  a  witness 
who  testified  against  him,  in  one  of  the  trials  we  had,  and  that 
individual  is  justly  defending  his  character." 

"  You  may  not  be  aware,"  replied  Mr.  Goodyear,  to  this, 
"  that  it  is  not  only  well  understood  that  you  are  the  instigator 
in  this  matter,  but  that  you  furnish  the  means  of  carrying  on  the 
suit." 

Peters  looked  surprised,  and  a  little  indignant,  at  this  allega- 
tion. 

"  I  have  been  informed  to-night,"  resumed  Mr.  Goodyear, 
"  that  there  are  two  or  three  men  ready  to  come  forward,  and  not 
only  prove  you  to  be  the  real  prosecutor,  but  to  prove  that  you 
have  been  heard  to  declare  that  you  meant  to  ruin  Pendergast 
totally  before  you  were  done  with  him-  His  lawyer  has  this  mat- 
ter clearly  before  him,  and  is  now  urging  his  client  to  commence 
a  suit  against  you  for  conspiracy,  which,  you  are  aware,  is  a  very 
serious  matter." 

"  Let  him  do  it.  He'll  not  frighten  me.  He'll  find  that  there 
is  no  back-out  in  Thomas  Peters.  I  didn't  commence  the  game  ; 
I  was  forced  into  it ;  and  I'll  fight  till  I  die,  rather  than  yield  an 
inch.  When  he  commenced  this  business  he  ought  to  have  been 
more  sure  of  the  ground  he  stood  upon  ;  and  he  ought  to  have 
known  his  man  better.  His  bill  for  tresspass  was  an  insult,  and 
his  suit  to  recover  it,  rank  injustice." 

"  So  he  now  acknowledges." 

"What!" 

Peters  looked  half-blank  with  astonishment,  and  elevated  his 
eye-brows  until  they  formed  bold  arches  on  his  forehead. 

"  He  says,"  continued  Goodyear,  "  that  it  is  now  clear  to  him 
that  he  was  wrong,  although  he  thought  he  was  right ;  but  that 
he  was  blinded  by  passion  to  do  what  he  has  since  a  hundred 
times  regretted  having  done.  He  thinks,  and  so  do  I,  that  he 
has  been  sufficiently  punished  for  the  error  he  committed,  and 


56  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

that  to  push  him  on  to  ruin,  and  his  family  to  beggary,  savors 
more  of  persecution  than  of  justice." 

«  Why  has  he  not  said  this  to  me  ?" 

"You  must  make  some  allowance  for  a  man's  natural  pride. 
Think  how  impossible  it  would  be  for  you  to  go  and  make  such 
an  acknowledgment  to  an  enemy  who  was  persecuting  you  as 
you  are  now  persecuting  him  ?" 

Peters  did  think,  and  he  felt  the  force  of  this  presentation  of 

"  When  did  you  hear  him  say  this  ?"  he  asked. 

"  To-night.  His  lawyer  was  urging  him  to  commence  a  suit 
against  you  for  conspiracy,  saying  that  he  had  all  the  proof  ne- 
cessary to  fix  the  charge  upon  you,  and  make  conviction  sure  ; 
but  he  said,  *  No.'  " 

"  Why  ?" 

"  He  said  he  wanted  peace,  not  war.  That  he  had  com- 
menced the  war  unjustly,  from  an  error  of  judgment  and  igno- 
rance of  facts  since  brought  to  his  notice  ;  and  now  he  meant  it 
should  terminate,  even  though  he  were  stricken  to  the  earth 
never  to  rise  again.  He  said  he  felt  no  resentment  towards  you. 
That  had  died  in  his  bosom.  He  would  rather  do  you  good 
than  harm.  In  fact,  the  poor  man  seems  completely  humbled 
and  broken  down  in  spirits,  and  no  wonder.  He  has  a  young 
family  to  whom  he  is  warmly  attached.  His  wife  you  know  to 
be  one  of  the  best  of  women.  Every  one  acknowledges  that. 
The  prospect  of  having  all  these  turned  out  of  their  pleasant 
home  is  enough  to  break  any  man  down.  It  would  break  your 
spirits.  It  made  my  heart  sad  to  look  in  his  face,  and  hear  the 
tone  of  his  voice.  The  lawyer  urged  the  suit  against  you  as  his 
only  hope,  but  he  said,  '  No,  no.'  Ah  !  neighbor  Peters,  if  you 
had  seen  him  as  I  saw  him,  it  would  have  touched  your  feelings 
as  it  touched  mine.  Be  merciful  then,  and  have  this  suit  aban- 
doned. I  am  sure  he  will  make  any  just  acknowledgment  to  the 
man  who  thinks  his  character  injured." 

As  Mr.  Goodyear  ceased  speaking,  the  farmer  rose  from  his 
chair,  and  commenced  walking  the  floor  hurriedly.  This  was 
continued  for  the  space  of  full  five  minutes.  Evidently  there 
was  a  powerful  struggle  going  on  in  his  mind.  At  length  he 
came  and  sat  down  in  a  chair,  which  he  drew  up  close  to  that 
of  his  visitor.  The  expression  of  his  face  was  changed,  and 
there  was  a  rapid  play  ot  the  muscles  about  his  lips.  He  began 
speaking  in  a  subdued,  unsteady  voice. 


"  CONQUERING   A    PEACE."  57 

"  I  don't  think,  Mr.  Goodyear,"  said  he,  "  that  I  am  a  cruel- 
minded  man.  But  I  have  been  exasperated.  Pendergast  began 
to  bluster  in  the  outset,  and  sent  me  several  very  insolent  mes- 
sages. I  was  very  naturally  provoked  ;  for  I  can  neither  bear 
intimidation  nor  insult.  I  did  not  feel  myself  to  blame.  If  he 
had  come  to  me  at  first,  and  complained  of  the  damages  he  had 
sustained  from  my  oxen,  I  would  have  done  all  in  my  power  to 
repair  the  injury.  One  of  my  men  should  have  replanted  the 
corn.  But  no  ;  he  must  make  out  a  bill,  and  demand  its  pay- 
ment in  an  insulting  way.  Then  he  calls  in  the  aid  of  the  law, 
and  puts  me  to  two  or  three  years  trouble,  and  considerable  ex- 
pense." 

"  But  all  that  he  has  been  required  to  pay  back  to  you,"  said 
Mr.  Goodyear. 

"  True.  But  the  worry  of  mind,  excitement,  exasperation  of 
feeling,  and  all  that,  he  cannot  atone  for.  The  fact  is,  Mr. 
Goodyear,  I  have  suffered  in  this  thing  severely,  and  without  a 
cause." 

"  But  he  has  suffered  more  than  you  have,  ten-fold. — Certain- 
ly enough  for  his  offence.  Do  not,  therefore,  put  your  foot  upon 
his  neck,  and  hold  him  to  the  earth,  now  that  he  is  down.  Let 
the  pure  spirit  of  forgiveness  whisper  its  gentle  words  in  your 
heart." 

"Don't  misunderstand  me,  said  Peters,  quickly;  "I  do  not 
say  this  as  a  reason  for  future  action,  but  as  an  excuse  for  the 
past.  I  will  forgive  him.  I  will  pause  where  I  am.  The  suit 
shall  be  withdrawn  to-morrow." 

Mr.  Goodyear  caught  the  hand  of  the  farmer,  and  pressed  it 
warmly. 

"  May  I  say  this  to  him  to-night  ?"  he  eagerly  asked. 

"  By  all  means.  I  would  not  prolong  his  wretchedness  a  mo- 
ment." 

"  May  I  say  it  to  him  as  from  you  ?" 

"  Yes.  Tell  him  that  I,  too,  have  been  wrong  in  carrying 
things  too  far.  That  I  ought  to  have  been  satisfied  long  ago. 
That  I  would  most  gladly  bury  the  past  in  oblivion,  if  that  could 
possibly  be  done.  Alas  !  into  how  much  of  wrong  and  suffering 
do  our  passions  betray  us  !  If  I  had  kept  cool  when  he  brought 
against  me  his  peremptory  demand  for  damages,  and  instead  of 
treating  the  matter  roughly,  gone  to  him  and  showed  him  his 
error,  all  this  might  have  been  avoided,  and  we  might  still  have 


58  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE   AND   CHARACTER. 

been  warm  friends  instead  of  bitter  enemies.  I  am  afraid  I  am 
more  to  blame  than  I  imagined  ;  that  I  have  some  of  the  re- 
sponsibility of  the  incipiency  of  this  serious  matter  to 

"M*  Goodyear  did  pot  linger  long  after  the  farmer  had  attained 
to  so  good  a  state  of  mind,  but  returned  to  the  house  of  Pender- 
gast.  He  found  the  lawyer  still  there,  and  urging  his  client  to 
'conquer  a  peace'  by  bringing  a  suit  against  Peters  and  his 
agent  for  conspiracy  to  ruin  him.  But  Pendergast  was  firm. 
rfe  had  not  changed  his  views  in  the  least. 

"  Well,"  said  the  lawyer,  rising  to  retire,  a  few  moments  after 
Mr.  Goodyear  came  in,  "  I  hope  to  find  you  in  a  better  mind  to- 
morrow ;  for  this,  I  fear,  is  your  only  hope." 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  Goodyear  said,  "  I  am  most  happy 
to  inform  you,  friend  Pendergast,  that  I  have  succeeded  in  «  con- 
quering a  peace,  for  you  on  better  principles  than  your  lawyer 
proposed,  and  much  more,  I  trust,  to  your  satisfaction.  I  have 
just  left  Mr.  Peters,  to  whom  I  freely  related  what  I  had  heard 
you  say  to-night.  It  took  him  all  by  surprise,  and  deeply  dis- 
turbed him.  A  little  reflection  enabled  him  to  see  that  he  was 
something  to  blame  as  well  as  you,  and  that  he  was  carrying 
matters  much  too  far.  He  wishes  me  to  say,  that  all  proceed- 
ings shall  be  immediately  stopped ;  that  he  sees  he  has  been 
wrong  in  carrying  things  so  far ;  that  he  ought  to  have  been  sa- 
tisfied long  ago ;  and  that  he  would  most  gladly  bury  the  past  in 
oblivion,  if  it  were  possible." 

Mr.  Pendergast  appeared  to  he  stupified  by  intelligence  so 
strange  and  unexpected.  He  looked,  for  some  time,  with  a  be- 
wildered air,  into  the  face  of  Mr.  Goodyear. 

At  length,  as  all  became  clear  to  his  mind,  he  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands  to  conceal  his  emotion,  and  sat  silent  for  the  space 
of  many  minutes.  Then  rising,  he  took  the  hand  of  his  visitor, 
and  said,  with  much  feeling,  yet  with  manly  dignity : 

"  You  have  acted  nobly,  Mr.  Goodyear.  You  have  indeed 
'  conquered  a  peace '  that  can  never  again  be  broken.  Ah !  sir, 
kind  words  are  powerful.  They  effect  more  than  opposition  and 
passion.  Would  that  I  had  learned  this  truth  years  ago, — how 
much  of  error  and  suffering  it  would  have  saved  me !" 

Many  days  did  not  pass  before  Mr.  Goodyear  managed  to  bring 
together  the  two  men  whom  passion  had  severed  for  years  ;  and 
now  the  strife  between  them  is  a  strife  as  to  which  shall  most  fully 
compensate  the  other  for  the  wrong  he  has  suffered  at  his  hands. 


A  RISE  IN  THE  BUTTER  MARKET. 


Between  cause  and  effect,  philosophers  maintain  that  there 
exists  a  just  relation — and  this  no  one  can  doubt — yet,  for  all, 
we  cannot  help  sometimes  wondering  at  the  extent  of  the  effect 
when  compared  with  the  smallness  of  the  cause — 

"  Large  streams  from  little  fountains  flow — 
Tall  oaks  from  little  acorns  grow  !" 

And  this  apparent  insignificance  in  the  origin  of  things  in  the 
world  of  nature,  has  its  counterpart  in  the  world  of  mind.  How 
lighter  than  a  feather,  in  comparison,  sometimes,  is  the  cause 
which  produces  unhappiness !  How  often  is  the  comfort  of  a 
whole  family  abridged  by  some  trifling  circumstance,  that  ought 
not  to  have  made  a  visible  impression !  How  often  is  the  sky 
darkened  by  a  cloud  which,  at  first,  was  no  larger  than  a  man's 
hand! 

Causes  that,  to  one  unaffected  by  them,  seem  the  most  ridicu- 
lous, are  permitted,  week  after  week  and  month  after  month,  to 
come  within  the  family  sphere  and  keep  it  ever  in  a  state  of  dis- 
turbance. Of  these,  perhaps  the  most  fertile  of  domestic  inqui- 
etude, are  the  fluctuations  in  the  price  of  that  necessary  article  of 
table  comfort — BUTTER.  Don't  smile,  grave  reader,  at  this  seem- 
ing fall  in  the  dignity  of  our  exordium.  Even  while  you  smile, 
you  may  leave  unobliterated  some  furrow  that  would  never  have 
marred  your  countenance  had  butter  not  risen,  at  some  period  in 
your  history,  to  the  extraordinary  price  of  thirty-five  cents  a 
pound  !  Yes,  our  assertion  is  true,  and  we  are  prepared  to  prove 
what  we  affirm.  We  believe  that,  especially  in  our  large  cities, 
one  of  the  most  active  causes  of  domestic  infelicity  lies  in  the 
fluctuant  state  of  the  butter  market.  How  many  an  honest  citi- 
zen, or  worthy  matronly  head  of  a  family,  has  gone  to  market  in 
the  most  amiable  mood  possible,  and  after  the  absence  of  an  hour, 
come  home  sadly  changed  in  temper,  to  throw  a  shadow  over  the 

59 


60  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

pleasant  household  !  And  why?  What  cause  has  been  potent 
enough  to  effect  so  sad  a  change  ?  Butter  has  risen  five  cents 
in  the  pound  !  Yes,  there  is  the  explanation.  It  is  no  more  nor 
no  less.  Butter  has  done  it. 

Flour  may  go  up  to  ten  dollars,  beef  to  twenty  cents,  and  even 
potatoes  grow  scarce  at  a  dollar  a  bushel,  without  in  the  least 
abridging  either  the  moral  or  physical  comforts  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Live  well,  or  affecting  unpleasantly  any  member  of  their  family ; 
and  these  good  things  of  life,  "  creature  comforts,"  as  they  call 
them,  may  fall  to  the  minimum  market  rate,  and  not  produce  a 
visible  change  in  the  thermometer  of  their  feelings  :  but  let  there 
be  a  rise  in  butter,  and  down  goes  the  mercury.  The  freezing 
point  is  thirty-seven  and  a  half  cents  a  pound,  and  "  Zero"  fifty  ! 
You  may  come  within  a  few  cents  of  the  price  at  almost  any 
time,  by  just  looking  into  the  face  of  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Livewell,  or 
any  of  the  junior  Livewells,  from  Tom,  who  has  just  been  passed 
into  the  High  School,  to  little  Em,  who  has  been  elevated  to  the 
high  chair,  and  who  likes  butter  with  her  'lasses.  We  verily 
believe,  that  if  butter  were  never  to  go  above  a  shilling  a  pound, 
the  Livewells  would  be  the  happiest  people  in  the  city  ;  and  were 
it  to  keep  at  thirty-five,  they  would  be  the  most  miserable. 

"  Oh,  dear!  what  are  we  coming  to  ?"  said  Mrs.  Livewell,  in 
the  midst  of  a  few  friends  invited  to  spend  a  social  evening  not 
long  since.  "  Butter  is  so  terribly  high  !  What  do  you  think  I 
paid  for  it?" 

"  Thirty-one  ?"  inquired  a  lady  present. 

"  Thirty-three !" 

"Ah?" 

"  Yes,  indeed !     Why,  did  you  get  it  for  thirty-one  ?" 

"  Mrs.  D told  me  that  she  paid  thirty-one  for  excellent 

butter  this  morning,"  said  the  lady. 

"  Thirty-one  ?  Then  I  was  cheated  ;  that's  all !  Did  you  eet 
it  for  that?" 

"  I  only  paid  twenty-five." 

"  Twenty-five !"  Mrs.  Livewell  actually  arose  to  her  feet. 
"  Twenty-five  did  you  say?"  There  was  a  look  of  profound 
astonishment  on  her  face.  "  Was  it  good  butter  ?" 

lad" l  nCVer  taSted  better'    But  l  haVG  il  en£aged>"  ^turned  the 
||  Engaged  ?     Oh !     For  the  whole  season  ?" 
"  Yes.    A  man  comes  to  the  door  every  week,  and  serves  me 


A    RISE    IN    THE    BUTTER    MARKET.  61 

at  a  uniform  price,  no  matter  whether  the  market  be  high  or 
low.' 

Mrs.  Livewell  sat  down  again,  and  the  expression  of  her  face 
changed. 

"  I  don't  like  that  plan,"  said  she.  "  I  tried  it  once,  but  I 
don't  like  it.  It  does  well  enough  when  butter's  high,  but  to  be 
paying  a  quarter  for  all  your  butter  when  the  market  is  glutted 
with  the  very  first  quality  for  twenty  and  twenty-two,  and  even 
as  low  as  sixteen,  is  not  so  pleasant,  as  I  have  experienced." 

"  But,"  said  the  lady,  "  take  the  season  through,  and  I  believe 
it  comes  cheaper.  Besides,  it's  a  great  convenience  to  have  a 
good  article  served  to  you  regularly.  This  running  through  the 
market  twice  a  week,  tasting  butter  at  every  tub,  is  a  terrible 
annoyance." 

"  I'm  sure,"  returned  Mrs.  Livewell,  "  it  wasn't  a  cent  cheap- 
er to  us.  Indeed,  I  know  it  cost  us  a  great  deal  more  than  when 
we  took  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  market.  How  much  do  you  use 
a  week  ?" 

"  Five  pounds,"  replied  the  lady. 

"  It  takes  eight  for  our  table  every  blessed  week,  besides  three 
or  four  pounds  for  cooking.  It's  a  terrible  tax  !  When  the  price 
is  down  as  low  as  twenty  cents,  I  don't  mind  it ;  but  to  be  pay- 
ing thirty  or  thirty-three  is  dreadful !  I  really  feel  unhappy 
about  it." 

"  A  pound  of  butter,"  spoke  up  Mr.  Livewell,  at  this  part  of 
the  conversation,  "  is  never  worth  over  a  quarter,  and  to  charge 
more,  is  downright  cheatery.  If  I  had  any  thing  to  do  with  law- 
making,  I'd  fix  that  as  the  highest  limit." 

"  And  a  barrel  of  flour  at  six  dollars,"  said  the  lady,  who  had 
joined  in  the  conversation. 

"Well,  yes — or  seven  dollars,  if  you  choose.  But  butter 
should  never  be  suffered  to  go  above  twenty-five  cents.  That  is 
the  very  maximum  price." 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Mr.  Livewell,  at  this  part  of  the  conver- 
sation, drawing,  as  he  spoke,  a  slip  of  paper  from  his  pocket,  "  I 
met  with  something  to-day  that  is  quite  apropos  to  the  subject. 
The  fact  is,  the  public  mind  is  getting  awake  to  this  great  impo- 
sition, and  there  will  be  a  salutary  re-action  before  long.  The 
time  for  reform  is  at  no  great  distance." 

Mr.  Livewell  then  read  an  account  of  some  experiments  made 
in  the  production  of  butter  from  grass  and  hay  by  a  direct  chemi- 
cal process.  6 


62  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

«  There's  a  better  time  coming,  you  see,"  remarked  he,  as  he 
carefully  refolded  the  slip  of  paper,  a  light  playing  over  his  face; 
"  or,  as  the  song  has  it— 

'  A  good  time  coming,  boys, 
Wait  a  little  longer.' 

At  no  very  distant  period  we  shall  dispense  with  the  agency  of 
the  cow  in  this  important  matter  altogether.  And  think  what  a 
saving  that  will  be  !  Men  of  intelligence  and  enterprise  will 
then  come  into  the  business,  and  we  shall  have  a  true  competi- 
tion  not  such  as  exists  among  plodding  farmers  and  dairy-men, 

who  keep  on  in  the  beaten  track  from  generation  to  generation, 
as  if  there  were  no  such  thing  as  improvement.  By  this  new 
method,  you  see  that  a  large  per  centage  more  of  butter  is  ob- 
tained from  a  ton  of  hay  than  when  fed  to  cows.  And  this  is  no 
more  than  might  be  reasonably  inferred,  for  it  is  plain  that  the  ani- 
mals must  abstract  a  portion  for  their  own  subsistence." 

"  How  soon,"  inquired  Mrs.  Livewell,  seriously,  "  will  this 
new  method  be  adopted  ?" 

"  Immediately,  without  doubt.  The  thing  has  been  tried  and 
proved.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  in  six  months  we  had  a  large  es- 
tablishment, capable  of  supplying  the  whole  city  with  milk,  but- 
ter and  cream,  at  half  the  usual  prices." 

"  Delightful !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Livewell.  "  Oh,  I  wish  it  were 
to-morrow!  How  much  we  are  indebted  to  science !" 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  here  by  the  entrance  of  re- 
freshments in  the  inviting  shape  of  a  couple  of  pyramids  of  ice- 
cream and  a  basket  of  choice  cakes.  Instantly  the  price  of  but- 
ter was  forgotten — at  least  by  all  except  the  Livewells — and 
conversation,  by  a  natural  impulse,  took  a  new  and  more  gene- 
rally agreeable  direction. 

Now,  the  Livewells  are  not  penurious  people  by  any  means. 
Five  or  six  dollars  were  spent  for  these  refreshments  without  a 
feeling  of  regret  for  the  cost.  In  fact,  money  ever  passed  freely 
for  all  their  wants  or  pleasures,  except  in  the  single  instance  we 
have  adduced.  Only  when  butter  was  named,  did  the  usually 
open  hand  become  affected  by  a  sudden  contraction.  Canvas- 
backs  at  a  dollar  and  a  half  a  pair  were  often  on  their  table ; 
venison  steaks  smoked  on  their  chafing-dish  ;  and,  indeed,  the 
first  and  often  dearest  articles  of  the  season  were  indulged  in 
without  a  thought  of  the  cost  coming  in  to  mar  their  enjoyment 
—unless,  indeed,  butter  happened  to  be  as  high  as  thirty-three 


^s= 
MRS.  UVEWKLL  AND  THK  FARMER. 


A    RISE    IN    THE    BUTTER    MARKET.  63 

at  the  time.  Alas  for  a  good  digestion  when  this  was  the 
case ! 

Bright  and  early  on  the  morning  after  Mrs.  Livewell  had  been 
gladdened  by  the  news  of  a  great  anticipated  reform,  by  which 
cows  and  farmers  could  be  dispensed  with,  that  lady  started  for 
the  market-house,  in  order  to  obtain  her  usual  supply  of  butter. 
It  did  not  escape  her  notice,  as  she  came  in  the  vicinity  of  Mar- 
ket street,  that  nearly  all  the  bearers  of  butter-kettles  who  were 
wending  their  ways  homeward,  had  sober  faces.  This  was 
omnious  of  another  rise,  and  caused  a  depression  of  at  least  two 
degrees  in  the  thermometer  of  the  lady's  feelings. 

"  What's  butter?"  she  asked,  after  entering  the  market-house 
and  passing  down  a  short  distance  to  the  stand  of  a  Chester 
county  farmer,  who  always  sold  an  article  of  undoubted  excel- 
lence. 

"  Thirty-seven  and  a  half,  ma'am,"  replied  the  farmer. 

"What!"  Mrs.  Livewell  drew  herself  up  and  looked  seri- 
ously at  the  man.  "  I  only  paid  you  thirty-three  on  Saturday, 
and  that  was  a  shocking  price." 

"  Butter's  riz,  ma'am,"  replied  the  farmer,  with  a  comical 
leer.  He  could  afford  to  be  in  a  good  humor,  for  he  had  nearly 
a  hundred  pounds  in  his  tub,  and  knew,  to  a  moral  certainty,  that 
it  would  go  off  whether  Mrs.  Livewell  bought  or  not. 

"  Won't  you  take  thirty-five  for  four  pounds?" 

"  No  ma'am,  not  for  twenty.     Butter  is  butter  these  times." 

Mrs.  Livewell  was  just  on  the  point  of  startling  the  ears  of 
the  farmer  by  an  annunciation  of  the  important  discovery  that 
had  been  made,  and  which  was  to  bring  about  a  new  order  of 
things  in  the  butter  line,  when  she  found  herself  surrounded  by 
a  jostling,  eager  crowd  of  butter-seekers,  all  nearly  as  much  dis- 
turbed by  the  rise  in  the  market  as  herself. 

"  I'll  try  farther,"  she  murmured,  disengaging  herself  from  the 
little  knot  of  people  that  were  pressing  upon  her,  and  moving 
down  the  market.  She  knew  all  the  good  butter- tubs  from 
Eighth  street  to  Fourth,  but,  alas !  there  was  no  variation  in 
price.  There  seemed  to  have  been  a  combination  among  the 
dealers  to  extort  money  from  the  good  citizens  of  Philadelphia, 
and  in  her  heart  she  felt  that  the  offence  was  as  justly  indictable 
as  swindling.  Three  pounds,  instead  of  four,  the  usual  half- 
weekly  supply,  were  purchased,  after  nearly  three-quarters  of 
an  hour  had  been  consumed  in  the  search  for  good  butter  at 
thirty-five. 


64  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

«  Bless  me,  Kate  !  what  has  kept  you  so  long  ?"  was  the  grave 
salutation  of  Mr.  Livewell,  as  his  wife  entered,  half  an  hour 
after  the  usual  breakfast  time.  "  I  was  just  going.  It's  too  late 
for  me  to  be  away  from  business." 

Mrs.  Livewell's  feelings  were  not  in  a  condition  to  bear  a 
much  heavier  pressure  than  they  were  already  sustaining  ;  and 
it  is  hardly,  therefore,  a  matter  of  wonder,  that  she  made  a  fret- 
ful reply,  communicating,  as  she  did  so,  the  painful  fact  that 
butter  had  risen  to  thirty-seven  and  a  half. 

"  Thirty-seven !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Livewell,  retreating  a  pace 
or  two. 

"Yes,  thirty-seven.  I  didn't  buy  but  three  pounds,  and  that 
is  as  much  as  T  intend  to  get  until  Saturday,  so  you  may  all 
make  the  most  of  it  you  can." 

Mrs.  Livewell  threw  aside  her  bonnet  and  shawl  carelessly. 
The  shawl  was  cast  upon  a  table,  where  the  nurse  had  spilled 
some  milk  while  feeding  the  baby,  and  injured  to  an  amount 
equal  to  four  or  five  pounds  of  butter.  Mrs.  Livewell  saw  in  a 
moment  the  damage  that  had  been  done.  Lifting  the  shawl, 
she  looked  at  it  half  indifferently,  and  then  said,  as  she  threw  it 
again  from  her — 

"  Ruined !  But  it  can't  be  helped  now,  and  so  there's  no  use 
in  being  unhappy  about  it." 

As  Mrs.  Livewell  descended  to  the  breakfast-room,  the  serious 
fact  of  the  rise  in  butter  again  took  the  uppermost  place  in  her 
thoughts,  and  left  her  in  no  humor  to  bear  the  restlessness  of 
the  children,  who  were  hungry  and  impatient  from  having  had 
to  wait  nearly  an  hour  beyond  the  usual  breakfast  time. 

The  table  was  already  furnished  with  two  plates  of  the  fresh 
butter,  each  containing  half  a  pound.  One  of  them  was  peremp- 
torily ordered  off,  and  the  other  piece  cut  in  two. 

When  the  hot  cakes  arrived,  they  were  pronounced  "  swim- 
ming in  butter."  Not  one  of  the  children,  however,  from  Tom. 
down  to  Em,  were  willing  to  believe  this. 

"  See,  ma,"  said  Tom,  "  there  isn't  hardly  any  butter  on  my 
cakes." 

"  Take  molasses,  then.  Butter  is  too  dear  to  be  used  after 
your  fashion." 

"  I  don't  like  molasses,"  replied  Tom,  in  a  most  interesting 
whine. 

'  Then  don't  eat  it,"  said  the  mother,  her  voice  expressing 
any  thing  but  an  amiable  temper. 


A    RISE    IN    THE    BUTTER    MARKET.  65 

"  Can't  I  have  some  more  butter  ?" 

"  Not  a  particle  more,"  was  answered  most  positively. 

Tom,  at  this,  threw  down  his  knife  and  looked  sulky,  where- 
upon his  father  ordered  him  to  leave  the  table. 

"  I  want  some  more  butter,"  said  little  Em,  unappalled  by 
the  fate  of  Tom. 

"  There's  butter  enough  on  your  cakes,"  replied  the  mother. 

"  No  there  ain't.     I  want  some  more  butter." 

"  Well,  you  can't  have  any  more.     Here's  molasses." 

"  I  don't  want  molasses.     Give  me  more  butter." 

"  No,  not  a  particle  more." 

Em  showed  her  disappointment  by  screaming  to  the  extent  of 
her  vocal  capacity. 

"  You  may  scream  from  now  until  Doomsday,"  said  Mrs. 
Livewell,  coolly,  "  but  you'll  get  no  more  butter.  I  declare,  I 
never  saw  the  like  ;  you  all  seem  to  think  that  butter  was  made 
to  be  eaten  like  so  much  meat !" 

"  I  don't  like  these  cakes,"  broke  in  Katy,  next  older  than 
Em,  who  was  still  screaming  madly.  And  the  little  lady  pushed 
away  her  plate  and  leaned  back  in  her  chair. 

"  Why  don't  you  like  them  ?     Will  you  hush,  Em  !" 

The  first  sentence  was  a  calm  interrogation  ;  the  last  an  angry 
exclamation. 

"  I  want  more  butter,"  said  Katy. 

"  Well,  you  won't  get  any  more.  Your  cakes  are  swimming 
now." 

Katy  began  to  whine,  and  Em  continued  her  undiminished 
scream." 

'  If  you  don't  hush,  I'll !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Livewell, 

suddenly  losing  all  patience  and  laying  his  hand  heavily  upon 
Em. 

The  threat  of  unuttered  consequences  did  not 'in  the  least  appal 
the  little  rebel,  if  the  continuance  of  her  ear-piercing  screams 
gave  any  clue  to  the  state  of  her  feelings. 

"  I  can't  stand  this  ?"  fell,  at  length,  from  the  over-tried  fa- 
ther's lips,  and  rising  up  quickly,  he  seized  Em  with  a  deter- 
mined grip,  and  in  a  wonderfully  short  space  of  time,  landed  her 
in  the  chamber  above,  where  he  left  her  to  cry  it  out  by  herself. 
As  he  came  down,  his  eyes  rested  for  a  moment  or  two  upon  his 
hat,  which  hung  in  the  passage,  and  he  felt  strongly  inclined  to 
seize  upon  it  and  beat  a  hurried  retreat ;  but  he  resisted  the 
6* 


gg          SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER. 

temptation,  and  again  entered  the  breakfast-room.  Mrs.  Live- 
well  looked  distressed,  and  the  two  remaining  children  wore  a 
rebellious  aspect.  The  latter,  however,  fully  warned  by  the  fate 
of  Tom  and  Era,  were  silent,  and  eat,  with  an  evident  want  of 
relish,  the  cakes  said  to  be  "  swimming  in  butter."  Upon  this 
point,  it  is  but  fair  to  remark  that  there  were  two  opinions. 

Alas !  what  a  tempest  of  unhappy  feelings  had  the  advance 
of  four  cents  a  pound  in  butter  awakened  in  the  breast  of  nearly 
every  member  of  this  family.  The  bouquet  of  flowers  which 
Mrs.  Livewell  bought  that  morning  in  market,  cost  more  than 
the  whole  advance  on  four  pounds,  the  usual  quantity  purchased. 
This  bouquet  had  been  thrown  on  the  mantelpiece  carelessly,  and 
while  she  was  making  her  children  miserable  by  stinting  them 
in  their  allowance  of  butter,  the  baby  was  tearing  the  flowers  to 
pieces  and  strewing  the  leaves  upon  the  floor.  The  destruction 
caused  only  a  passing  murmur.  Strange  habitude  of  mind  ! 

Yet  Mrs.  Livewell  does  not  stand  alone.  She  is  the  represen- 
tative of  a  class,  and  that  a  very  large  one,  with  whom  the  price 
of  butter  throws  brightness  or  gloom  over  the  domestic  circle. 

Not  loud,  but  deep  were  the  anathemas  uttered  by  Mr.  Live- 
well  against  the  shameful  extortions  of  farmers  and  the  dairy- 
men, as  he  hurried  towards  his  store.  Hopefully  and  earnestly 
did  he  look  forward  to  the  time  when  a  milk  and  butter  labora- 
tory would  be  established  in  Philadelphia,  and  the  city  be  guar- 
anteed a  full  supply  of  the  latter  article  at  a  fair  rate.  On  arriving 
at  his  store,  he  sat  down  to  read  his  newspaper,  and  the  first 
thing  that  met  his  eye  was  a  glowing  description  of  a  new  atmos- 
pheric churn,  by  which  butter  could  be  produced  from  either 
milk  or  cream  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time.  As  the  story 
went,  every  man  could  churn  his  own  butter  at  the  breakfast 
table  while  the  toast  was  making  .or  the  tea  drawing.  Without 
waiting  to  read  his  letters,  just  brought  in  by  one  of  his  clerks, 
off  started  Mr.  Livewell  to  see  this  wonderful  churn.  The  man 
who  had  the  articles  for  sale,  gave  the  most  extraordinary  account 
of  their  performance,  and  succeeded,  with  but  little  trouble,  in  in- 
ducing his  rather  green  customer  to  exchange  a  ten  dollar  bill 
for  one  of  them. 

"  What  in  the  name  of  wonder  is  this  machine  you  sent  home 
to-day  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Livewell  of  her  husband  on  the  appear- 
ance of  the  latter  at  dinner  time. 

"  That's  a  newly-invented  churn  on  the  atmospheric  princi- 
p^e,"  replied  Mr.  Livewell,  his  face  all  animation. 


A   RISE   IN   THE    BUTTER   MARKET.  67 

«  A  churn?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  ;  on  a  new  principle  altogether.  It  has  just 
been  discovered.  Every  housekeeper  can  now  have  his  own 
butter  at  less  trouble  than  it  takes  to  go  to  market.  Put  in  a 
gallon  or  two  of  cream,  and  you  have  pounds  of  fresh  butter  in 
five  minutes !" 

"  Are  you  certain,  Mr.  Live  well  ?"  inquired  his  wife,  half  in- 
credulously. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  it's  no  matter  of  speculation,  but  a  fixed  fact. 
Butter  can  be  made  from  cream  in  five  minutes,  and  from  skim- 
milk  in  ten.  Nothing  to  do  but  turn  so,  and  the  air  rushes 
through  these  dashers,  or  whatever  you  call  them,  and  the' butter 
is  there.  It's  the  step  between  the  chemical  process  we  talked 
of  last  night  and  the  ordinary  mode.  Isn't  it  grand  ?" 

"If  it  will  do." 

"  Do?  It  can't  help  doing.  The  principle  is  as  plain  as  day- 
light. It  must  do  To-morrow  morning  we  will  get  a  gallon 
of  cream  from  our  milk-man,  and  have  butter  of  our  own  churn- 
ing for  breakfast.  Think  what  a  saving  it  will  be !" 

"  How  much  butter  will  a  gallon  of  cream  make  ?" 

"  About  five  pounds,  the  man  told  me." 

"  Indeed  !  Cream  is  eighty  cents  a  gallon.  That  will  bring 
the  butter  down  to  sixteen  cents." 

"  And  we'll  have  the  butter-milk  into  the  bargain.  Capital, 
isn't  it  ?  I  wonder  people  have  never  thought  of  this  before.  It 
doesn't  take  a  great  while  for  butter  to  come,  even  in  the  ordi- 
nary churn." 

Full  of  this  new  idea,  on  the  next  morning  their  milkman  was 
over  persuaded  to  disappoint  the  remainder  of  his  customers  to 
let  them  have  a  gallon  of  cream  for  their  new  experiment.  An 
effort  had  been  made  to  keep  the  juveniles  in  ignorance  of  what 
was  going  on ;  but  they  had  seen  the  churn,  and  with  the  won- 
derful instinct  of  children  seemed  at  once  to  comprehend  its 
mysteries,  and  to  understand  that  it  was  to  be  used  in  the  morn- 
ing. So,  when  the  experiment  was  to  be  tried,  they  were  there, 
from  Tom  down  to  Em,  notwithstanding  they  had  been  told  a 
dozen  times  by  their  mother  to  go  away  up  stairs  and  remain 
until  called.  Of  course,  each  one  felt  desirous  of  assisting  in 
the  new  and  interesting  work  ;  and  as  all  could  not  get  hold  of 
the  handle  of  the  churn  at  once,  not  a  little  pushing,  scolding, 
quarreling  and  crying  took  place,  in  the  midst  of  which  Mr. 


68  SKETCHES    OF  LIFE   AND   CHARACTER. 

Live  well  who  was  a  decided  man  when  fairly  aroused,  turned 
the  whole  posse  of  them  out  of  the  room.  Finally,  the  gallon 
of  cream  was  poured  into  the  churn,  and  Mr.  Livewell  com- 
menced the  operation  of  churning.  Most  faithfully  did  he  work 
for  five  minutes,  when  the  top  was  removed,  and  the  heads  of 
the  husband  and  wife  came  together  in  rather  a  jarring  contact, 
as  each  sought  eagerly  to  see  the  four  or  five  pound  lumps  of  sweet 
butter,  all  ready  for  the  table,  swimming  about  in  the  novel  ma- 
chine. For  a  moment  or  two  they  saw  only  sparks,  then  a  thick 
mass  became  visible,  floating  on  the  surface  of  the  buttermilk. 

"  Try  a  little  longer,"  said  Mrs.  Livewell. 

"  Five  minutes  he  told  me  was  ample.  I  don't  believe  the 
cream  is  good." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  the  cream  is  good,"  returned  the  wife. 
"  You  must  churn  longer." 

And  so  the  lid  was  put  down,  and  the  patent  butter-maker 
again  set  in  operation  and  worked  for  five  minutes,  during  the 
whole  of  which  time  Em  and  Katy  were  pounding  and  calling 
on  the  outside  of  the  door. 

"  Now  I  guess  it's  come,"  said  Mr.  Livewell,  as  he  took  out 
his  pocket-handkerchief  and  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his 
forehead,  while  Mrs.  Livewell  proceeded  to  inspect  the  contents 
of  the  churn.  But  alas !  there  was  nothing  within  that  was  fa-, 
miliar  to  their  eyes  as  butter.  In  its  place  was  a  thick,  soft  mass, 
that  bore  some  slight  resemblance  to  the  article  they  sought. 
While  pondering  over  this  and  wondering  what  it  could  mean, 
a  gleam  of  light  came  into  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Livewell.  She  re- 
membered having  heard  some  one  say,  that  after  butter  was 
churned  it  had  to  be  removed  from  the  buttermilk,  and  all  the 
watery  particles  forced  out  by  some  sort  of  kneading  or  compres- 
sion. So  she  took  out  the  buttery  mass,  which  weighed  some 
two  pounds,  and  putting  it  in  a  dish,  worked  it  with  a  spoon 
until  it  came  to  the  consistence  of  good  firm  lard.  A  little  salt 
was  added,  after  which  breakfast  was  served,  and  the  children 
admitted.  The  pent-up  curiosity  of  these  young  excitables 
overflowed  towards  the  churn,  and  the  reader  will  scarcely  be 
surprised  to  hear  that,  in  their  scramble  for  its  possession  and 
the  particular  privilege  of  rotating  the  dasher,  they  managed  to 
throw  it  over  and  deluge  the  floor  with  buttermilk. 

A  little  scene  followed,  not  necessary  to  describe — some  of  our 
fair  reader,  may  easily  imagine  it — and  then  the  expectant  family 


DEACON    SMITH    AND    HIS    VIOLIN.  69 

gathered  around  the  table.  Butter  was  plenty,  even  though  it 
had  cost  forty  cents  a  pound,  to  say  nothing  of  the  labor,  and 
price  of  the  churn.  But,  somehow  or  other,  it  hadn't  exactly  a 
natural  appearance  nor  taste.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Livewell  looked  at 
each  other  gravely,  and  shook  their  heads.  The  children  pre- 
ferred molasses  after  a  first  trial  of  the  butter,  and  finally,  the 
waiter  was  directed  to  bring  in  some  of  the  genuine  article. 

Of  course,  the  atmospheric  churn  was  voted  a  failure,  and 
stowed  away,  to  become  acquainted  with  dust  and  cobwebs  in 
the  cellar,  where  it  still  reposes  "  solitary  and  alone."  And,  of 
course,  as  the  butter  laboratory  has  not  yet  been  established, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Livewell  and  their  family  are  still  victims  to  the 
constant  fluctuations  in  the  butter  market,  and  there  seems  little 
chance  of  any  happy  turn  of  events  in  their  favor.  They  are 
still  looking  forward  with  hope  to  the  time  when  hay  and  grass 
will  be  converted,  by  a  cheap,  quick  and  simple  process,  into 
butter,  without  all  the  delay,  expense  and  nonsense  attendant 
upon  cow-feeding  and  milking.  But  we  are  afraid  they  will 
grow  faint  with  looking  and  longing  for  the  good  time  they  so 
earnestly  desire.  Their  case  is  a  melancholy  one ;  but  they 
have  this  consolation,  if  consolation  it  be — they  are  but  the  types 
of  a  class,  and  that  a  numerous  one. 


DEACON  SMITH  AND  HIS  VIOLIN. 


In  his  younger  days,  Deacon  Smith  was  looked  upon  as  a 
very  carnal-minded  young  man.  The  father,  old  Deacon  Smith, 
had  many  painful  exercises  about  his  son  Abel,  who,  to  use  his 
own  language,  was  "  strangely  disposed  to  follow  after  the  man 
of  this  world  ;"  and  he  did  not  hesitate,  in  season  and  out  of 
season,  to  lecture  him  on  the  evil  tendency  of  his  ways. 


70  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

And,  in  very  truth,  Abel  did  give  promise  of  making  a  bad 
Christian,  according  to  the  standard  set  up  by  his  father ;  for 
Abel,  blessed  with  good  health,  good  spirits  and  a  light  body, 
would,  in  the  face  of  warning,  entreaty  and  ghostly  admonition, 
indulge  in  the  sinful  practises  of  dancing,  singing  carnal  songs, 
and  playing  upon  that  most  profane  of  all  musical  instruments, 
the  violin. 

How  a  son  of  his  could  ever  go  so  far  astray,  was  a  matter  of 
serious  wonder  to  old  Deacon  Smith.  To  him  it  seemed,  and  so 
he  often  said,  when  mourning  over  the  sad  declension  of  Abel, 
that  Satan  had  especially  desired  to  have  him  from  a  boy,  for, 
from  his  earliest  youth,  Abel  had  shown  a  strange  fondness  for 
sinful  pleasures,  as  will  be  seen  in  what  we  will  here  relate. 

There  was  a  lad  named  Thomas,  whose  father,  in  the  com- 
mon estimation  of  the  religious  community  around  him,  neither 
"  feared  God  nor  regarded  man."  That  is,  he  saw  nothing 
sinful  in  natural  pleasures,  if  indulged  lawfully  and  without  ex- 
cess, and  lived  in  the  practice  of  his  faith  on  this  subject.  The 
lad,  his  son,  had  obtained  a  Jew's-harp,  and  learned  to  play 
upon  it  the  profane  airs  of  "  Yankee  Doodle,"  "  Hail  Colum- 
bia," "  St.  Patrick's  Day,"  and  "  Auld  Lang  Syne."  As  he 
lived  near  neighbor  to  Deacon  Smith,  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
meeting  Abel  almost  every  day,  although  the  parents  of  the 
latter  made  many  efforts  to  keep  the  children  apart,  and  often 
punished  their  little  boy  for  disobedience  on  this  score.  But, 
there  was  something  about  this  son  of  a  sinful  father  that  at- 
tracted Abel,  spite  of  interdiction  and  punishment,  and  caused 
him  to  seek  his  company  whenever  an  opportunity  of  meeting 
him  occurred. 

One  of  the  chief  attractions  possessed  by  Thomas  was  his 
Jew's-harp,  and  his  ability  to  play  upon  it.  Music  was  Abel's 
leading  passion,  and  by  the  time  he  was  four  years  old,  he 
could  catch  a  tune  almost  the  first  time  he  heard  it,  and  was 
constantly  distressing  the  ears  of  his  parents,  and  receiving  sharp 
rebukes  for  indulging  in  a  strain  of  "Yankee  Doodle,"  or  "  Scots 
wha  ha',"  either  vocally  or  instrumentally — the  instrumental 
part  consisting  generally  of  a  solo  on  a  tin  cup  with  his  little 
fist,  or  else  performed  with  a  stick  on  the  wall,  window  sill,  or 
any  other  article  from  which  he  could  elicit  a  sound. 

One  day  Abel  was  so  fortunate  as  to  receive  the  present  of 
a  sixpence.  With  this  he  started  off  at  full  speed  on  a  visit  to 


DEACON   SMITH   AND    HIS    VIOLIN.  71 

his  interesting  friend  Thomas,  and  met  him  with  a  proposition 
to  buy  his  Jew's-harp,  for  which  he  offered  the  aforesaid  six- 
pence. Upon  this  simple  instrument,  under  the  instruction  of 
Thomas,  he  had  already  learned  to  play  one  or  two  airs  so  well, 
that  no  one  could  possibly  mistake  them.  The  proposed  ex- 
change of  property  was  readily  effected. 

On  the  morning  when  this  occurrence  took  place,  Rev.  Jede- 
diah  Cantwell,  the  minister,  had  called  in  to  see  Deacon  Smith, 
and  have  some  conversation  with  him,  touching  the  things  of 
the  spirit.  As  they  sat  together,  in  earnest  conference,  their 
solemn  states  were  suddenly  disturbed  by  the  sound  of  music  in 
the  next  room  ;  and,  shocking  to  relate,  it  came  from  a  Jew's- 
harp,  whose  little  tongue  was  vibrating  most  energetically  to  the 
tune  of  "  Yankee  Doodle!"  In  a  moment  after,  the  door  was 
thrown  open,  and  Abel  came  stamping  into  the  room,  with  his 
teeth  closed  tightly  upon  the  iron  bow,  and  his  finger  touching 
with  unwonted  skill  the  musical  tongue  of  his  prize.  His  head 
was  set  back  so  far,  and  his  eyes  so  nearly  closed  that  he  made 
the  circuit  of  the  room  twice,  before  discovering  the  august  pre- 
sence of  the  minister  and  his  angry  father;  nor  was  it  until  a 
sharp  word  from  the  latter  fell  upon  his  ear,  that  he  became 
aware  that  there  was  an  audience  as  well  as  performer. 

"  Give  me  that,  sir!"  said  the  stern  father,  with  brows  drawn 
down,  and  eyes  glancing  forth  birch  rods  by  the  dozen. 

Abel's  reluctance  to  part  with  his  Jew's-harp,  was  easy  to  be 
seen  looking  out  from  the  sudden  alarm  with  which  this  unex- 
pected encounter  had  inspired  him. 

"  Now  go  out  of  the  room,  sir!    I  will  see  you  after  awhile." 

As  Deacon  Smith  said  this,  he  broke  the  tongue  of  the  inno- 
cent instrument,  and  twisted  the  symmetrical  bow  into  a  mis- 
shapen form.  Poor  Abel,  when  he  saw  this  hopeless  ruin,  burst 
into  tears  and  ran  out  of  the  room  ;  finding  his  mother  he  hid 
his  face  in  her  lap  and  sobbed  wildly  for  many  minutes. 

"  Deacon  Smith,"  said  the  minister,  in  a  voice  of  solem  warn- 
ing, as  soon  as  the  child  had  retired,  "  unless  you  watch  over 
that  boy  of  yours  more  carefully  and  prayerfully,  he  will  be  lost. 
It  is  dreadful  to  think  that  so  young  a  child,  and  the  son  of  one 
of  our  oldest  Deacons,  should  so  early  go  astray  from  the  testi- 
monies of  the  righteous  !  There  must  be  some  fault  at  home — 
it  is  my  duty  to  speak  plain,  Deacon,  and  I  will  speak  plain  to 
all,  even  though  my  words  cut  like  a  knife,  and  divide  in  sunder 


72  SKETXHLS    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

the  bones  and  the  marrow— yes,  some  fault  at  home !  Search 
it  out,  Deacon ;  and  apply  the  correction,  as  you  value  the  soul 
of  your  child!" 

Deacon  Smith  bowed  his  head,  and  received  meekly,  and 
without  reply,  this  reproof  of  Mr.  Cantwell.  He  felt  deeply 
humbled  as  well  as  deeply  grieved.  That  he  was  to  blame, 
somehow  or  other,  because  his  son  loved  music  and  had  learned 
to  play  upon  the  Jew's-harp,  he  sadly  owned,  but  exactly  how 
he  was  to  blame,  and  how  he  could  have  prevented  the  evil 
that  had  occurred,  was  not  so  clear  to  his  mind. 

As  for  Abel,  to  the  loss  of  his  Jew's-harp  were  added  sundry 
experimental  punishments,  more  or  less  severe,  according  as 
affection  for  the  child,  or  a  stern  sense  of  duty,  preponderated 
in  the  father's  mind.  How  far  these  were  salutary  in  effecting 
that  for  which  they  were  designed,  will  appear  from  the  fact, 
that  Abel  bought  from  his  friend  Thomas,  within  a  week,  for 
gingerbread  that  he  denied  himself  the  gratification  of  tasting, 
another  Jew's-harp.  This  he  took  good  care  never  to  play  within 
the  hearing  of  any  one  at  home.  It  sounded  in  distant  fence  cor- 
ners, in  the  old  barn  where  the  air  was  sweet  with  newly  gath- 
ered hay,  and  in  the  house  of  his  friend  Thomas,  into  whose 
company  he  would  go,  spite  of  punishment — but  it  was  never 
heard  at  home,  where  all  was  cold  and  unmusical,  and  where  a 
laugh  never  echoed  along  the  ceilings  with  heart-warming  cheer- 
fulness. 

Here  was  the  beginning  of  Abel's  wanderings  away  from  the 
right  path.  As  he  grew  older,  his  passion  for  music  increased. 
This  his  parents  attempted  to  guide,  if  they  could  not  restrain, 
by  having  him  instructed,  as  soon  as  he  was  old  enough  to  learn^ 
in  psalmody.  But  Abel  had  a  strange  love  for  instrumental  mu- 
sic, and  often  showed  more  interest  in  blowing  the  teacher's 
pitch  pipe,  or  ringing  his  tuning  fork,  than  in  his  sol  fa  mi. 

As  a  school-boy,  Abel  was  known  as  a  famous  maker  of  corn- 
stalk fiddles,  "  locusts,"  &c.,  and  generally  had  his  pockets 
searched  at  least  once  a  week  at  home,  and  almost  every  day  at 
school,  for  Jew's-harps,  not  a  small  number  of  which,  at  one 
time  and  another,  suffered  confiscation.  But,  the  love  of  music 
was  a  part  of  his  soul  and  could  not  be  extinguished.  The 
sound  of  a  drum  and  fife  almost  set  him  crazy,  and  the  music 
of  a  well  played  violin  touched  him  so  deeply  that  his  heart  often 
answered  to  it  with  tears. 


DEACON    SMITH    AND    HIS    VIOLIN.  73 

At  the  age  of  eighteen,  Abel  went  into  a  store  in  the  village, 
that  lay  a  few  miles  from  the  homestead,  in  order  to  qualify  him- 
self for  doing  business.  Freedom  from  the  oppressive  restraints 
of  home,  he  felt  to  be,  indeed,  a  blessed  relief.  About  the  first 
use  he  made  of  it,  was  to  buy  from  an  itinerant  vender  of  all 
sorts  of  notions,  an  old  violin  that  he  happened  to  have  for  sale, 
worth,  really,  four  times  what  was  asked  for  it.  From  the  time 
Abel  came  into  possession  of  this  instrument,  for  months,  every 
moment  of  leisure  and  retirement  was  spent  in  learning  to  play. 
This  fact  some  friend  communicated  to  the  old  Deacon,  who 
brought  all  the  influence  he  possessed  to  bear  upon  his  son,  but 
without  effect.  The  violin  was  too  dearly  prized  to  be  given  up. 

This  love  of  music  and  playing  on  the  violin,  were  the  means 
of  introducing  Abel  into  a  new  circle  of  acquaintance.  A  few 
months  after  he  came  to  the  village  he  met,  regularly,  every 
week,  half  a  dozen  young  men,  who  were,  like  himself,  learners; 
some  on  the  violin,  some  on  the  flute,  and  some  on  other  instru- 
ments. From  music  to  dancing,  and  going  to  see  shows  where 
music,  such  as  it  was,  always  formed  an  attraction,  was  an  easy 
transition.  Abel  added  to  his  other  vices  that  of  tripping  it  on 
the  light  fantastic  toe,  which,  when  the  fact  became  known  to 
his  father,  caused  him  most  bitter  grief  of  spirit.  But  all  he 
could  say  produced  no  effect  upon  Abel,  who  made  the  matter 
much  worse  in  the  eyes  of  the  old  Deacon  by  declaring  that  he 
saw  no  harm  in  dancing.  If  he  had  owned  to  its  being  evil,  and 
confessed  to  the  inordinate  carnal  desire  that  led  him  into  sin, 
there  would  have  been  some  hope ;  but  to  "  see  no  harm  in  dan- 
cing!"— that  made  the  perversion  of  his  son  almost  hopeless. 

It  was  a  great  scandal  to  Deacon  Smith,  this  worldly-minded- 
ness  and  sad  declension.  He  felt,  daily,  that  his  own  standing  was 
compromised  by  the  conduct  of  his  son  ;  for  people  would  say, 
and  he  was  very  certain  did  say,  that  there  must  have  been  some 
fault  at  home,  or  Abel  never  would  have  wandered  so  soon  from 
the  straight  and  narrow  path.  What  that  fault  was,  he  could  not 
tell.  He  was  certain  that  he  had  tried  faithfully  to  restrain  the 
perverse  tendencies  of  his  fallen  nature,  although  he  had  tried  in 
vain. 

The  attainment  of  his  majority  did  not  cause  Abel  to  love  the 

things  of  the  church  any  more  nor  the  things  of  this  world  any 

less.     He  entered  into  all  the  social  amusements  that  came  in 

his  way,  dancing,  and  even  joining  a  game  of  whist,  if  cards 

7 


74  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

happened  to  be  introduced.  But  in  nothing  did  he  take  so  much 
delight  as  in  his  violin,  in  performing  upon  which  he  attained 
great  skill. 

When  Abel  was  twenty-three  years  of  age,  he  saw,  during  one 
of  his  visits  at  home,  a  maiden  who  greatly  pleased  his  fancy. 
He  had  met  her  frequently  before,  but  then  she  was  only  a 
sprightly  little  girl,  and  he  a  boy  just  leaving  school.  The  pleas- 
ant girl  had  become  a  lovely  maiden,  and  Abel's  heart  turned 
towards  her  as  the  flower  to  the  sun.  Old  Deacon  Smith  was 
quick  to  see  the  impression  made  by  Abby  Howard  upon  the 
mind  of  his  son,  and  he  was  wonderfully  pleased  thereat,  for 
Abby  was  the  oldest  daughter  of  the  good  Deacon  Howrard,  and 
was  herself  a  church  member,  and  pious.  He  had  more  hope 
for  his  son  now,  than  he  had  felt  for  years. 

Well,  Abel's  next  visit  was  in  six  weeks,  instead  of  in  three 
months,  as  formerly,  and  what  was  a  little  notable,  during  the 
few  days  he  remained  at  home,  he  took  occasion  to  call  at  Dea- 
con Howard's  and  ask  for  Abby.  This  was  known  all  over  the 
neighborhood  in  less  than  twenty-four  hours. 

At  his  next  return  home,  which  was  in  even  a  shorter  period 
than  six  weeks,  he  visited  Abby  twice.  Things  now  looked  se- 
rious, und  Deacon  Howard  called  in  to  see  Deacon  Smith  to  ask 
him  about  his  son.  He  had  heard,  he  frankly  acknowledged, 
many  strange  stories  about  Abel,  who  was  generally  accounted 
a  worldly-minded  and  profane  young  man,  while  Abby  was  a 
member  of  the  church  and  very  pious.  Abel  had  visited  her 
already  three  or  four  times,  and  it  was  too  evident  that  Abby 
had  received  his  visits  with  pleasure.  This  being  the  posture  of 
affairs,  Deacon  Howard  wished  to  know  what  he  could  say  in 
favor  of  his  son. 

This  was  a  trial  for  the  stern  old  Deacon  to  pass  through.  He 
loved  his  boy  more  and  more  as  he  grew  older,  for  Abel,  not- 
withstanding his  evil  ways  in  the  eyes  of  his  father,  was  always 
kind,  attentive  and  affectionate  towards  his  parents  ;  and  even 
though  rebuked,  sometimes,  with  unbecoming  harshness,  ever 
returned  gentle  and  soothing  words. 

"  There  is  something  good  in  that  boy,  for  all,"  the  father 
could  not  help  often  saying  to  his  wife,  after  parting  with  Abel 
at  the  end  of  his  regular  visits  at  home.  If  I  could  only  see  him 
hopefully  pious,  my  heart  would  be  at  rest." 

Even  the  most  rigid  will  pardon  Deacor  Smith  for  putting  the 


DEACON    SMITH    AND    HIS    VIOLIN.  75 

best  possible  face  upon  the  matter,  as  he  did  to  Deacon  How- 
ard, between  whom  and  himself,  it  was  finally  agreed  that  the 
young  couple  should  be  left  to  follow  out  their  own  inclinations. 
These  drew  them  into  a  nearer  intimacy,  and  ended  in  a  decla- 
ration of  love  on  the  part  of  Abel,  who  was  referred  by  the 
blushing  maiden  to  her  father. 

To  Deacon  Howard  the  young  man  went  with  some  reluctance 
and  many  misgivings.  His  application  for  the  hand  of  Abby 
was  treated  with  much  gravity,  and  he  had  to  stand  many  search- 
ing questions,  and  sundry  severe  remarks  upon  his  past  life,  for 
which,  much  to  the  Deacon's  satisfaction,  he  expressed  sincere 
regret,  and  hoped  that  he  might  in  the  future  be  a  better  man. 
He  was  told  that  Abby  was  a  member  of  the  church  and  pious, 
and  that  if  he  thought  of  becoming  her  husband,  and  the  head 
of  a  family,  he  should  make  up  his  mind  to  come  out  from  the 
sinful  world  and  prepare  himself,  by  joining  the  church,  for  the 
important  duties  that  would  necessarily  devolve  upon  him. 

This  was  a  grave  matter,  but  his  love  for  Abby  made  Abel 
weigh  what  was  said  to  him  with  due  seriousness  ;  and  he  finally 
began  to  think  that,  perhaps,  he  had  been  rather  too  worldly- 
minded  ;  and,  also,  that  as  Abby  was  a  pious  young  woman  and 
a  member  of  the  church,  it  would  not  do  for  him,  as  her  husband, 
to  do  just  as  he  had  done. 

The  next  thing  was  an  objection  urged  by  Abby's  mother  to 
her  going  away.  To  meet  this,  came  an  offer  on  the  part  of 
Deacon  Smith  to  Deacon  Howard  of  this  tenor; — if  he  would 
join  him  in  the  purchase  of  a  neat  little  farm,  close  by,  that  had 
just  been  offered  for  sale,  they  would  buy  it  and  make  it  a  pres- 
ent to  the  young  couple  as  a  marriage  portion,  provided  Abel 
was  willing  to  give  up  storekeeping  and  turn  farmer.  Abel  did 
not  object,  seriously. 

The  marriage  was  solemnized  on  next  Thanksgiving  day, 
and  in  the  following  spring  Abel  Smith  commenced  his  new  oc- 
cupation of  farmer.  In  the  course  of  a  year  he  joined  the  church, 
and  there  was  a  fair  promise  of  his  becoming  a  worthy  member 
of  the  same. 

Abel's  first  trial  after  marriage,  was  the  serious  objection 
made  by  Abby  to  his  violin,  the  very  sound  of  which  caused  her 
heart  to  shrink,  and  filled  her  with  alarm  lest  some  one  should 
be  passing  near.  The  idea  of  its  being  said  that  a  violin  had 
been  heard  in  her  house,  was  a  shocking  thought.  The  hus- 


76  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

band's  love  for  his  wife  and  regard  for  her  feelings,  even  though 
he  believed  her  prejudiced,  triumphed  over  his  affection  for  the 
fav  jrite  violin,  and  it  was  soon  laid  aside  in  some  dark  corner. 

Even  though  seated  beside  his  sweet  young  bride,  the  evenings 
often  passed  away  heavily  without  a  strain  of  music  from  the 
dear  old  instrument.  He  read  pious  books  to  Abby,  sung  with 
her  the  sacred  songs  of  the  church,  talked  over  their  duties  in 
life,  recounted  their  present  pleasures  and  the  hosts  that  crowded 
the  blessed  future ;  but  all  did  not  compensate,  fully,  for  what 
he  had  lost,  and  there  were  times  when  he  would  have  made  al- 
most any  sacrifice  to  hear  again  the  pure  strains  of  a  violin. 

Ten  years  after  he  had  seen  his  son  married,  become  a  church 
member,  and  give  up  his  carnal  delights,  old  Deacon  Smith  paid 
the  debt  of  nature.  His  last  days  he  always  called  his  best 
days. 

Abel,  by  this  time,  had  a  snug  little  family  about  him,  and 
was  doing  very  well  on  his  farm.  On  Sundays  he  attended 
church  regularly  with  his  wife  and  children.  The  death  of  old 
Deacon  Smith  left  a  vacancy  in  the  secular  part  of  the  particu- 
lar church  militant  of  which  he  had  while  living  been  a  mem- 
ber, and  this  vacancy  was  filled  by  an  election  of  his  son  to  the 
office.  Abel  tried  to  refuse  the  honor  thus  unexpectedly  con- 
ferred upon  him,  but  it  was  no  use.  He  had  been  made  a  dea- 
con, and  a  deacon  he  must  remain. 

The  oldest  son  of  Deacon  Smith,  as  Abel  was  now  every 
where  callecf,  had  quite  as  strong  a  passion  for  Jew's-harps,  corn- 
stalk fiddles  and  the  like,  as  had  been  manifested  by  his  father 
when  of  his  age.  The  Deacon,  as  became  him,  looked  grave 
whenever  he  came  suddenly  upon  the  young  Abel  engaged  in  his 
musical  recreations ;  but  he  never  positively  interdicted  the  Jew's- 
harp,  nor  broke  out  its  eloquent  little  tongue,  as  his  father  had 
done  before  him.  No — no.  He  could  not  have  done  that !  There 
was  something  in  the  sound  of  the  little  instrument  that  made  his 
heart  beat  quicker,  Deacon  of  the  Church  as  he  was !  Nor  did 
little  Abel  alone  show  a  fondness  for  music  ;  every  child  he  had 
was  so  full  of  harmony  that  he  almost  cried  in  tune. 

As  the  children  grew  up,  they  were  early  taught  music  ;  that 
is,  psalmody.  But,  notwithstanding  no  songs  but  sacred  songs 
were  heard  from  the  lips  of  their  parents ;  and  profane  songs, 
as  they  were  called,  were  spoken  against  in  the  church,  the  voice 
of  Ruth,  the  oldest  girl,  was  often  heard  lingering  sweetly  on 


DEACON    SMITH   AND    HIS    VIOLIN.  77 

"  Come  to  the  Suhset  Tree,"  "  Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night,"  or  "  The 
Last  Rose  of  Summer,"  which  she  had  learned  from  her  young 
companions. 

Although  Deacon  Smith  had  never  asked  his  daughter  to  sing 
one  of  these  songs,  yet  he  always  listened  to  her  when  she  war- 
bled them  to  herself,  and  thought  she  never  sung  so  sweetly. 
Abel  often  struck  in  with  his  mellow  bass,  giving  a  double  effect 
to  the  music.  Against  this  the  mother  often  complained,  and 
frequently  rebuked  the  children  for  singing  these  profane  son^s, 
but  her  husband  always  said,  when  they  were  alone — 

"  I  don't  know  that  we  ought  to  feel  very  much  troubled  about 
it,  Abby ;  they  might  do  a  great  deal  worse." 

After  Abel  Smith  had  been  Deacon  for  about  ten  years,  old 
Mr.  Cantwell,  the  minister,  died,  well  advanced  in  age ;  and  a 
new  minister  was  chosen.  He  was  a  man  about  thirty  years  of 
age,  well  educated,  and  far  less  austere  in  his  manner  than  his 
predecessor.  Deacon  Smith  liked  him  much  better,  although, 
from  some  cause  or  other,  he  never  became  very  intimate  in  his 
intercourse  with  him. 

As  the  children  grew  up,  and  their  love  of  music  grew  with 
their  growth  and  strengthened  with  their  strength,  their  know- 
ledge of  profane  songs  increased.  Ruth  had  two  or  three  young 
friends,  whose  advantages  were  far  above  hers,  as  they  had  pi- 
anos, and  all  the  "  new  and  fashionable  music."  From  these 
young  ladies,  Ruth  used  frequently  to  borrow  songs  and  learn 
them  at  home.  At  length,  Deacon  Smith  so  far  broke  through 
the  ice  of  rigid  church  conventionality,  as  to  ask  Ruth,  some- 
times, to  sing  him  some  of  the  songs  he  most  loved  to  hear — 
"  Come  to  the  Sunset  Tree,"  or  "  The  Irish  Emigrant's  La- 
ment." At  last,  when  the  children  were  singing  any  thing  that 
pleased  him,  he  would  join  in,  much  to  the  surprise  of  his  wife, 
who  began  really  to  fear  that  her  husband  was  "  falling  away" 
from  his  spiritual  integrity. 

"  A  Deacon  singing  songs  !     What  will  be  said  ?" — 

This  remark  of  Abby's  made  the  Deacon  feel  a  little  curious, 
and  half  ashamed  of  himself.  But  when  the  "  Lament,"  or 
"  Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night,"  or  "  Woodman  Spare  that  Tree"  was 
sung  by  Ruth  and  joined  in  by  her  two  brothers,  the  Deacon's 
voice  would,  somehow  or  other,  without  his  intending  it,  blend 
in  with  them,  and  give  character  and  depth  to  the  music.  He 
felt  that  there  was  something  wanting,  and  that  his  voice  would 
7* 


78  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

just  supply  it,  and  then  his  voice  broke  in.  There  was  little  or 
no  intention  in  this.  It  was  from  a  kind  of  impulse. 

Thus  things  went  on  for  a  few  years  until  Abby  ceased  to 
object,  and  until,  in  fact,  she  came  to  feel  a  heart-interest  in  the 
"  Lament,"  "  The  May  Queen,"  and  many  other  profane  songs. 
Almost  every  evening  there  was  a  little  concert  in  the  Deacon's 
family,  which  usually  ended  by  way  of  a  conscience-clearer, 
with  a  hymn  or  a  psalm. 

One  day,  it  was  when  Ruth  was  about  sixteen,  and  Abel,  his 
oldest  boy,  in  his  fourteenth  year,  the  Deacon,  in  passing  his 
barn,  stopped  in  sudden  surprise,  at  hearing  the  music  of  a  violin 
issuing  from  the  repository  of  grain  and  hay.  The  performer 
he  soon  ascertained  to  be  no  very  great  proficient  in  the  art 
he  was  endeavoring  to  practice,  although  he  made  a  tolerably 
fair  attempt  at  "  Yankee  Doodle."  Drawing  silently  near,  and 
gaining  a  position  that  made  him  an  unobserved  observer,  the 
Deacon  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  see  his  son  AbeJ,  sawing 
away  upon  his  old  violin,  the  existence  of  which  he  had  fully 
believed  to  be  a  matter  of  entire  ignorance  to  his  children ;  as 
well  as  the  fact  that  he  had  himself  ever  handled  the  bow. 

As  quietly  as  he  had  approached,  did  Deacon  Smith  with- 
draw, feeling  rather  strangely.  The  sound  of  that  -old  violin 
had  awakened  a  thousand  musical  echoes  in  his  heart,  and  he 
felt  a  most  intense  desire  to  get  it  once  more  into  his  hands, 
and  draw  from  it  the  deep  melodies  that  lay  hidden  in  its 
strings. 

That  evening,  the  Deacon  said  to  Abel,  as  the  children  got 
out  their  music,  and  after  selecting  the  "  Lament,"  were  pre- 
paring to  sing  it — 

"  Go  up  stairs,  my  son,  and  bring  down  my  violin." 

Abel  started,  and  looked  half  frightened  for  a  moment,  Ruth 
turned  her  eyes  quickly  upon  her  father's  face,  and  the  mother 
said,  in  a  deprecating  voice — 

"  What  do  you  want  with  that,  father?" 

Abel  only  paused  an  instant,  and  then  flew  up  stairs  for  the 
violin.  He  happened  to  know  more  about  his  father's  early  love 
for  the  instrument  than  the  Deacon  suspected. 

The  violin  was  brought  and  placed  in  the  hands  of  Deacon 
Smith,  who  looked  at  it  with  a  glance  of  affection  that  he  could 
not  conceal.  He  found  that  it  had  been  newly  stringed.  After 
tuning  it,  he  said  to  the  children,— 


DEACON    SMITH    AND    HIS    VIOLIN.  79 

"  Now  begin,  and  let  me  see  if  I  can't  accompany  you." 

Ruth  and  her  brothers  arranged  themselves  and  began  the 
song,  while  the  Deacon  drew  his  bow  with  a  skill  and  taste  that 
surprised  and  delighted  his  children. 

While  in  the  midst  of  this  performance,  an  auditor  presented 
himself  at  the  door  opening  into  the  passage,  towards  which 
their  backs  were  turned,  and  this  no  less  a  personage  than  the 
minister,  who,  as  the  reader  may  suppose,  was  "  immensely " 
surprised  at  what  he  heard  and  saw.  A  deacon  of  his  church 
playing  on  the  violin  and  singing  with  his  children  a  profane 
song  !  He  felt,  for  the  moment,  a  strong  emotion  of  pious  anger. 
But  he  restrained  himself  and  stood  still,  unobserved,  but  all  ob- 
serving. 

As  the  song  progressed,  sung  as  it  was  with  exquisite  taste 
and  overpowering  pathos,  for  the  hearts  of  all  were  in  what  they 
were  doing,  the  minister's  feelings  began  to  soften.  He  felt,  too, 
that  there  could  be  no  evil  in  a  poor  bereaved  heart  thus  pour- 
ing itself  out  in  expressive  words  nor  any  in  singing  those  words, 
and  feeling  intense  sympathy  for  him  who  was  supposed  first  to 
have  uttered  them.  Once  or  twice  the  minister  felt  a  choking 
sensation  in  his  throat,  but  he  swallowed  it  down  with  an  effort. 
At  last,  accompanied  by  a  low  wailing  strain  from  the  violin, 
their  voices  trembled  on  the  words — 

'  And  I  laid  you,  darling  down  to  sleep, 
With  your  baby  on  your  breast." 

This  was  more  than  the  minister  could  bear.  Ere  the  next 
strain  could  be  taken  up,  the  little  party  of  musicians  were  star- 
tled by  a  deep  fluttering  sob,  and  turning  quickly  in  the  direc- 
tion from  which  it  came,  they  saw  their  minister  in  the  door, 
striving  in  vain  to  hide  the  tears  that  were  falling  over  his  face. 
The  man — the  true  man's  heart  in  him  had  been  touched. 

Deacon  Smith  understood,  in  a  moment,  the  exact  position  of 
affairs.  He  did  not  attempt  to  push  his  violin  out  of  sight,  but 
laid  it  in  full  view  upon  a  table.  As  soon  as  all  was  settled, 
and  a  good  tone  of  feeling  had  been  acquired,  he  said — 

"  You  are,  no  doubt,  surprised  to  find  a  Deacon  of  your  church 
playing  on  the  violin,  and  his  children  singing  songs.  But,  I 
need  not  tell  you,  who  know  so  well,  that  it  is  the  end*for  which 
a  thing,  not  evil  in  itself,  is  done,  that  makes  it  good  or  bad  to 
him  who  does  it.  It  might  be  evil  for  some  to  do  what  we  have 
been  doing,  but  not  for  us.  We  feel  it  not  only  to  be  innocent, 


80  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

but  good  thus  to  mingle  our  hearts  and  voices  in  sympathy  with 
our  fellows.  We  have  two  duties  in  life, — to  love  God  and  re- 
gard man.  If  we  do  not  properly  regard  man,  we  cannot  truly 
love  God.  The  great  mistake  that  is  made  by  the  religious 
world,  I  have  long  felt  to  be,  the  withdrawal  of  itself  from  the 
natural  world  and  its  natural  pleasures,  instead  of  flowing  into 
it  and  giving  a  true  vitality  to  these  pleasures.  It  is  not  reli- 
gion to  live  above  the  world,  nor  out  of  it,  but  to  live  in  it  and 
fill  all  its  uses  and  innocent  pleasures  with  a  vital  and  spiritual 
principle.  Good  songs,  expressive  of  human  sympathies  and 
good  will  one  towards  another,  are  as  necessary  for  the  perfec- 
tion of  what  is  natural,  as  spiritual  songs  and  devotional  exer- 
cises are  for  the  perfection  of  what  is  spiritual." 

The  minister  did  not  attempt  to  controvert  what  the  Deacon 
said,  although,  in  connection  with  a  violin,  the  doctrine  seemed 
a  little  heretical.  But,  as  he  had  been  betrayed  into  the  natu- 
ral weakness  of  shedding  tears  at  the  mere  singing  of  a  song, 
he  felt  that  it  was  best  for  him  to  say  as  little  as  possible. 

After  that,  Deacon  Smith  indulged  in  the  luxury  of  violin 
playing  whenever  he  felt  inclined  that  way.  This  luxury,  how- 
ever, was  not  enjoyed  without  sundry  drawbacks.  Exceptions 
were  taken  by  members  of  the  church  to  a  secular  officer  thereof 
being  guilty  of  such  a  violation  of  religious  decorum  as  playing 
upon  a  fiddle,  which  was  characterized  by  some  as  the  Devil's 
instrument.  The  Deacon's  mind  at  last  became  balanced  be- 
tween the  questions  of  giving  up  his  violin,  or  resigning  his  of- 
fice in  the  church.  His  desire  to  be  free  to  do  what  he  believed 
to  be  right,  and  his  love  for  the  old,  mellow  toned  instrument, 
decided  him  to  give  up  the  deaconcy,  and  he  is  now  plain  Abel 
Smith,  though  quite  as  good  a  Christian  at  heart  as  many  of  his 
more  scrupulous  brethren. 


THE  KNIGHT,  THE  HERMIT,  AND 

THE  MAN 


THE    KNIGHT. 

Sir  Guy  de  Montfort  was  as  brave  a  knight  as  ever  laid  lance 
in  rest,  or  swung  his  glittering  battle-axe.  He  possessed  many 
noble  and  generous  qualities,  but  they  were  obscured,  alas !  by 
the  strange  thirst  for  human  blood  that  marked  the  age  in  which 
he  lived — an  age,  when  "  love  your  friends,  and  hate  your  ene- 
mies," had  taken  the  place  of  "  But  I  say  unto  you,  love  your 
enemies  ;  bless  them  that  curse  you,  do  good  to  them  that  hate 
you,  and  pray  for  them  which  despitefully  use  you  and  persecute 
you." 

Ten  knights  as  brave  as  Sir  Guy,  and  possessing  as  many 
noble  and  generous  qualities,  had  fallen  beneath  his  superior 
strength  and  skill  in  arms  ;  and  for  this,  the  bright  eyes  of  beau- 
ty looked  admiringly  upon  him — fair  lips  smiled  when  he  ap- 
peared— and  minstrels  sang  of  his  prowess  in  ladies'  bower  and 
festive  hall. 

At  a  great  tournament  given  in  honor  of  the  marriage  of  the 
king's  daughter,  Sir  Guy  sent  forth  his  challenge  to  single  and 
deadly  combat ;  but,  for  two  days  no  one  accepted  this  challenge, 
although  it  was  three  times  proclaimed  by  the  herald.  On  the 
third  day,  a  young  and  strange  knight  rode,  with  vizor  down, 
into  the  lists,  and  accepted  the  challenge.  His  slender  form, 
his  carriage,  and  all  that  appertained  to  him,  showed  him  to  be 
no  match  for  Guy  de  Montfort — and  so  it  proved.  They  met — 
and  Sir  Guy's  lance,  at  the  first  tilt,  penetrated  the  corslet  of 
the  brave  young  knight  and  entered  his  heart.  As  he  rolled 

81 


gg  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

upon  the  ground,  his  casque  flew  off,  and  a  shower  of  sunny 
curls  fell  over  his  fair  young  face  and  neck. 

Soon  the  strange  news  went  thrilling  from  heart  to  heart,  that 
the  youthful  knight  who  had  kissed  the  dust  beneath  the  sharp 
steel  of  De  Montfort,  was  a  maiden  !  and  none  other  than  the 
beautiful,  high-spirited  Agnes  St.  JBertrand,  whose  rather  Sir 
Guy  had  killed,  but  a  few  months  before,  in  a  combat  to  which 
he  had  challenged  him. 

By  order  of  the  king  the  tournament  was  suspended,  and  ram- 
pant knights  and  ladies  gay  went  back  to  their  homes  in  soberer 
mood  than  when  they  came  forth. 

Alone  in  his  castle,  with  the  grim  faces  of  his  ancestors  look- 
ing down  upon  him  from  the  wall,  Sir  Guy  paced  to  and  fro 
with  hurried  steps.  The  Angel  of  Mercy  was  nearer  to  him 
than  she  had  been  for  years,  and  her  whispers  were  distinctly 
heard.  Glory  and  fame  were  forgotten  by  the  knight — for  self 
was  forgotten.  The  question — a  strange  question  for  him — 
"  What  good  ?"  arose  in  his  mind.  He  had  killed  St.  Ber- 
trand — but  why  ?  To  add  another  leaf  to  his  laurels  as  a  brave 
knight.  But,  was  this  leaf  worth  its  cost — the  broken  heart  of 
the  fairest  and  loveliest  maiden  in  the  land  ?  nay,  more — the  life- 
drops  from  that  broken  heart? 

For  the  first  time  the  flush  of  triumph  was  chilled  by  a  re- 
membrance of  what  the  triumph  had  cost  him.  Then  came  a 
shudder,  as  he  thought  of  the  lovely  widow  who  droopped  in  Arto 
Castle — of  the  wild  pang  that  snapped  the  heart-strings  of  De 
Cressy's  bride,  when  she  saw  the  battle  axe  go  crashing  into  her 
husband's  brain — of  the  beautiful  betrothed  of  Sir  Gilbert  de  Ma- 
rion, now  a  shrieking  maniac — of  Agnes  St.  Bertrand  ! 

As  these  sad  images  came  up  before  the  knight,  his  pace  grew 
more  rapid,  and  his  brows,  upon  which  large  beads  of  sweat 
were  standing,  were  clasped  between  his  hands  with  a  gesture 
of  agony. 

"  And  what  for  all  this?"  he  murmured.  "  What  for  all  this  ? 
Am  I  braver  or  better  for  such  bloody  work  ?" 

Through  the  long  night  he  paced  the  hall  of  his  castle ;  but 
with  day  dawn  he  rode  forth  alone.  The  sun  arose  and  set ; 
the  seasons  came  and  went ;  years  passed ;  but  the  knight  re- 
turned not. 


THE  KNIGHT,  THE  HERMIT,  AND  THE  MAN.       83 

THE    HERMIT. 

Far  from  the  busy  scenes  of  life  dwelt  a  pious  recluse,  who, 
in  prayer,  fasting,  and  various  forms  of  penance,  sought  to  find 
repose  for  his  troubled  conscience.  His  food  was  pulse,  and  his 
drink  the  pure  water  that  went  sparkling  in  the  sunlight  past 
his  hermit-cell  in  the  wilderness.  Now  and  then  a  traveler 
who  had  lost  his  way,  or  an  eager  hunter  in  pursuit  of  game, 
met  this  lonely  man  in  his  deep  seclusion.  To  such  he  spoke 
eloquently  of  the  vanities  of  life,  and  of  the  wisdom  of  those 
who,  renouncing  these  vanities,  devote  themselves  to  God ;  and 
they  left  him,  believing  the  hermit  to  be  a  wise  and  happy  man. 

But  they  erred.  Neither  prayer  nor  penance  filled  the  aching 
void  that  was  in  his  bosom.  If  he  were  happy,  it  was  a  happi- 
ness for  which  none  need  have  felt  an  envious  wish ;  if  he  were 
wise,  his  wisdom  partook  more  of  the  selfishness  of  this  world 
than  of  the  holy  benevolence  of  the  next. 

The  days  came  and  went ;  the  seasons  changed  ;  years  pass- 
ed ;  and  still  the  hermit's  prayers  went  up  at  morning,  and  the 
setting  sun  looked  upon  his  kneeling  form.  His  body  was  bent, 
though  not  with  age ;  his  long  hair  whitened,  but  not  with  the 
snows  of  many  winters.  Yet  all  availed  not.  The  solitary  one 
found  not  in  prayer  and  penance  that  peace  which  passeth  all 
understanding. 

One  night  he  dreamed  in  his  cell  that  the  Angel  of  Mercy 
came  to  him,  and  said  : 

"  It  is  in  vain — all  in  vain  !  Art  thou  not  a  man,  to  whom 
power  has  been  given  to  do  good  to  thy  fellow-man  ?  Is  the 
bird  on  the  tree,  the  beast  in  his  lair,  the  worm  that  crawls  upon 
the  earth  thy  fellow  ?  Not  by  prayer,  not  by  meditation,  not  by 
penance,  is  man  purified  ;  not  for  these  are  his  iniquities  washed 
out.  '  Well  done,  good  and  faithful  servant.'  These  are  the 
divine  words  thou  hast  not  yet  learned.  Thou  callest  thyself 
God's  servant ;  but  were  is  thy  work  ?  I  see  it  not.  Where 
are  the  hungry  thou  hast  fed  ? — the  naked  thou  hast  clothed? — 
the  sick  and  the  prisoner  who  have  been  visited  by  thee.  They 
are  not  here  in  the  wilderness !" 

The  angel  departed,  and  the  hermit  awoke.  It  was  midnight. 
From  the  bending  heavens  beamed  down  myriads  of  beautiful 
stars.  The  dark  and  solemn  woods  were  still  as  death,  and 
there  was  no  sound  on  the  air  save  the  clear  music  of  the 


84  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

singing  rill  as  it  went  on,  happily,  with  its  work,  even  in  the 
darkness. 

"  Where  is  my  work  ?"  murmured  the  hermit,  as  he  stood  with 
his  hot  brow  uncovered  in  the  cool  air.  "  The  stars  are  moving 
in  their  courses;  the  trees  are  spreading  forth  their  branches 
and  rising  to  heaven ;  and  the  stream  flows  on  to  the  ocean  ;  but 
I,  superior  to  all  these— I,  gifted  with  a  will,  an  understanding 
and  active  energies — am  doing  no  work !  *  Well  done,  good 
and  faithful  servant.'  Those  blessed  words  cannot  be  said  of 
me." 

Morning  came,  and  the  hermit  saw  the  bee  at  its  labor,  the 
bird  building  its  nest  and  the  worm  spinning  its  silken  thread. 

"  And  is  there  no  work  for  me,  the  noblest  of  all  created 
things  ?"  said  he. 

The  hermit  knelt  in  prayer,  but  found  no  utterance.  Wliere 
was  his  work  ?  He  had  none  to  bring  but  evil  work.  He  had 
harmed  his  fellow  men — but  where  was  the  good  he  had  done  ? 
Prayers  and  penitential  deeds  wiped  away  no  tear  from  the  eye 
of  sorrow — fed  not  the  hungry — clothed  not  the  naked. 

"  De  Montfort ! — it  is  in  vain !  there  must  be  charity  as  well 
as  piety !" 

Thus  murmured  the  hermit,  as  he  arose  from  his  prostrate 
attitude. 

When  night  came,  the  hermit's  cell,  far  away  in  the  deep,  un- 
trodden forest,  was  tenaniless. 


THE   MAN. 

A  fearful  plague  raged  in  a  great  city.  In  the  narrow  streets 
where  the  poor  were  crowded  together,  the  hot  breath  of  the  pes- 
tilence withered  up  hundreds  in  a  day.  Those  not  stricken 
down,  fled,  and  left  the  suffering  and  the  dying  to  their  fate. 
Terror  extinguished  all  human  sympathies. 

In  the  midst  of  these  dreadful  scenes,  a  man  clad  in  plain 
garments— a  stranger— approached  the  'plague-stricken  city. 
The  flying  inhabitants  warned  him  of  the  peril  he  was  about  en- 
countering, but  he  heeded  them  not.  He  entered  within  the 
walls,  and  took  his  way  with  a  firm  step  to  the  most  infected 
regions. 


THE  KNIGHT,  THE  HERMIT,  AND  THE  MAN.        85 

In  the  first  house  that  he  entered  he  found  a  young  maiden 
alone  and  almost  in  the  agonies  of  death ;  and  her  feeble  cry 
was  for  something  to  slake  her  burning  thirst.  He  placed  to  her 
lips  a  cool  draught,  of  which  she  drank  eagerly ;  then  he  sat 
down  to  watch  by  her  side.  In  a  little  while  the  hot  fever  began 
to  abate,  and  the  sufferer  slept.  Then  he  lifted  her  in  his  arms 
and  bore  her  beyond  the  city  walls,  where  the  air  was  purer  and 
where  were  those  appointed  to  receive  and  minister  to  the  sick 
who  were  brought  forth. 

Again  he  went  into  the  deadly  atmosphere  and  among  the 
sick  and  the  dying ;  and  soon  he  returned  once  more,  with  a 
sleeping  infant  that  he  had  removed  from  the  enfolding  arms  of 
its  dead  mother.  There  was  a  calm  and  holy  smile  upon  the 
stranger's  lips  as  he  looked  into  the  sweet  face  of  the  innocent 
child  ere  he  resigned  it  to  others  ;  and  those  who  saw  that  smile, 
said  in  their  hearts, — "  Verily,  he  hath  his  reward." 

For  weeks  the  plague  hovered,  with  its  black  wings,  over  that 
devoted  city — and,  during  the  whole  time,  this  stranger  to  all  the 
inhabitants  passed  from  house  to  house,  supporting  a  dying  head 
here,  giving  drink  to  such  as  were  almost  mad  with  thirst  there, 
and  bearing  forth  in  his  arms  those  for  whom  there  was  any  hope 
of  life.  But,  when  "  the  pestilence  that  walketh  in  darkness 
and  wasteth  at  noon  day,"  had  left  the  city,  he  was  no  where  to 
be  found. 


For  years  the  Castle  of  De  Montfort  was  without  a  lord.  Its 
knightly  owner  had  departed,  though  to  what  far  country  no  one 
knew.  At  last  he  returned — not  on  mailed  charger,  with  cors- 
let, casque  and  spear — a  boastful  knight,  with  hands  crimsoned 
by  his  brother's  blood, — not  as  a  pious  devotee  from  his  cloister ; 
but,  as  a  man,  from  the  city  where  he  had  done  good  deeds  amid 
the  dying  and  the  dead.  He  came  to  take  possession  of  his 
stately  castle  and  his  broad  lands  once  more — not  as  a  knight, 
but  as  a  man — not  to  glory  once  more  in  his  proud  elevation, 
but  to  use  the  gifts  with  which  God  had  endowed  him,  in  making 
wiser,  better  and  happier,  his  fellow-men. 

He  had  work  to  do,  and  he  was  faithful  in  its  performance. 
He  was  no  longer  a  knight-errant,  seeking  for  adventure  wher- 
ever brute  courage  promised  to  give  him  renown;  he  was  no 
8 


86  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE   AND   CHARACTER. 

longer  an  idle  hermit,  shrinking  from  his  work  in  the  great  har- 
vest-fields of  life  ;  but  he  was  a  maw,  doing  valiantly  among  his 
fellow-men,  truly  noble  deeds— not  deeds  of  blood,  but  deeds  of 
moral  daring,  in  an  age  when  the  real  uses  of  life  were  despised 
by  the  titled  few. 

There  was  the  bold  Knight,  the  pious  Hermit,  and  the  Man ; 
but  the  MAN  was  best  and  greatest  of  all. 


HAPPY   ON  A   LITTLE. 


"  What  is  your  income  ?" 

The  young  man  to  whom  this  question  was  addressed,  hesi- 
tated to  answer,  while  the  flush  already  on  his  brow  assumed  a 
deeper  hue. 

"  Can  you  support  a  wife  ?" 

"  Yes  sir." 

"  What  is  your  salary  ? 

"  Three  hundred  dollars." 

"  Three  hundred !" 

"  Yes  sir." 

"  And  do  you  expect  to  maintain  a  wife  as  well  as  yourself 
on  that  sum  ?" 

"  Fanny  knows  what  I  earn,  and  she  is  willing  to  marry  me. 
We  have  talked  it  all  over,  and  she  is  ready  to  conform  to  my 
circumstances.  We  are  not  proud.  We  don't  care  for  the 
world's  opinion.  We  can  be  happy  on  a  little." 

"  On  a  little !  How  long  have  you  been  'receiving  your  pre- 
sent salary  ?" 

"  Three  years." 

"  How  much  have  you  saved  ?" 

"  Nothing." 


HAPPY    ON    A    LITTLE.  8? 

"  Nothing  I  How  comes  that  ?  If  two  can  live  on  three 
hundred  dollars,  one  ought  to  live  on  a  hundred  and  fifty." 

"  My  personal  expenses  are  higher  as  a  single  man  than  they 
would  be  if  I  were  married.  I  pay,  for  instance,  three  dollars  a 
week  for  boarding.  It  wouldn't  cost  us  both  more  than  that  for 
food." 

"  You  know  nothing  about  it,  my  young  friend.  It  is  far  more 
likely  to  cost  you  double." 

"  Oh !  As  to  that,  we  don't  expect  to  live  in  the  style  that 
you  do ;  nor  to  keep  so  good  a  table.  We  shall  conform  to  our 
means." 

"  With  all  of  which  you  think  Fanny  is  going  to  be  de- 
lighted." 

"  If  she  love  me,  she  will  not  desire  any  thing  beyond  what 
my.  means  will  procure." 

"  My  young  friend  !  If  you  and  Fanny  are  feeding  your  fan- 
cies upon  this  delusion,  you  are  both  fated  to  endure  severe  dis- 
appointments. Better  wait  for  a  couple  of  years  until  you  are 
in  a  condition  to  support  a  wife.  This  being  happy  on  a  little, 
is  all  romance.  It  won't  do,  no  how." 

The  young  man  was  silent,  but  not  convinced  that  he  was  in 
error.  He  was  over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  Mr.  Alexander's 
pretty  niece  Fanny,  and  Fanny  was  just  as  deeply  in  love  with 
him.  Being  in  love  with  each  other,  the  next  thing  to  be  thought 
of  was  marriage  ;  and  they  had  agreed  between  themselves  that, 
as  no  serious  obstacles  were  in  the  way  of  their  union,  it  must 
be  consummated.  So  Philip  Harper,  the  young  lover,  approach- 
ed Fanny's  uncle  on  the  subject  and  asked  his  consent  to  the 
proposed  union. 

Mr.  Alexander  was  a  plain  matter-of-fact  kind  of  a  man,  with 
little  enthusiasm,  few  weaknesses  and  no  romance  in  his  char- 
acter. Of  course,  he  objected,  as  has  been  seen,  and  with  good 
reason.  Harper  still  tried  to  reason  the  matter,  but  Mr.  Alex- 
ander closed  the  question,  by  saying  that,  until  the  young  man's 
income  was  at  least  five  hundred  dollars  per  annum,  he  would 
not  consent  to  the  marriage.  The  lover  went  away  disappointed, 
and  offended  at  some  plain  speeches  that  the  uncle  took  it  upon 
himself  to  make  upon  the  occasion. 

At  the  first  convenient  opportunity  that  offered,  after  the  lover 
retired,  Mr.  Alexander  took  his  niece  aside  and  talked  to  her  se- 
riously about  the  folly  she  proposed  to  commit. 


88  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  The  young  man's  character  is  fair  enough,"  said  he  ;  "  at 
least  so  far  as  I  know.  But  he  is  not  in  a  condition  to  support 
you." 

"  I  am  ready  to  conform  to  his  circumstances,"  replied  Fan- 
ny, blushing  as  she  spoke.  "  I  ask  nothing  beyond  what  his 
income  will  afford.  We  will  be  happy  on  a  little." 

"  But  his  income  will  not  afford  you  the  plainest  style  of 
living." 

"  He  gets  three  hundred  dollars  a  year." 

"  I  pay  more  than  that  for  house  rent." 

"  Oh !  but  we  don't  expect  to  live  in  a  house  as  large  as  this. 
Our  ideas  are  more  moderate." 

"  Silly  girl !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Alexander,  impatiently.  "  You 
don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about !" 

Fanny  burst  into  tears,  and  her  uncle,  after  the  utterance  of 
two  or  three  angry  expressions,  left  her  alone. 

Another  effort  was  made  by  young  Harper  to  obtain  the  con- 
sent of  Mr.  Alexander,  failing  in  which,  an  elopement  was  de- 
cided upon,  which  event  took  place  without  the  occurrence  of 
any  very  romantic  incident. 

When  the  fact  was  announced  to  Mr.  Alexander  he  did 
not  manifest  any  excitement,  but  merely  said  in  his  cool  way — 

"  Very  well !  Miss  Fanny  has  made  her  bed,  and  she  must 
lie  in  it." 

As  for  Miss  Fanny,  or,  rather,  Mrs.  Frances  Harper,  she  was 
content  to  meet  the  consequences  of  her  act,  which  she  did  not 
in  the  least  doubt  would  bring  her  all  the  happiness  she  de- 
sired. After  the  marriage  ceremony  had  been  performed,  Har- 
per removed  his  bride  to  his  boarding  house,  where  he  had  pro- 
vided for  her  temporary  reception  until  he  could  make  other 
arrangements.  The  note  that  was  immediately  despatched  by 
Fanny  to  her  uncle  and  aunt,  announcing  what  she  had  done, 
remained  unanswered  for  a  week ;  and  this  silence  gave  to  her 
cup  of  joy  its  first  drops  of  bitterness.  Since  she  was  four 
years  old,  they  had  been  to  her  all  that  her  own  parents,  had 
they  lived,  could  have  been ;  and  at  no  period  of  her  life  had 
she  before  acted  in  deliberate  opposition  to  their  wishes.  To 
feel  that  she  had  offended  them — that  they  were  angry  with  her 
— gave  her  great  pain,  and  sobered  her  feelings  ere  the  wreath 
of  orange  flowers  that  decked  her  hair  had  faded.  At  the  end 
of  a  week,  she  could  bear  the  suspense  no  longer,  and  so  went 


HAPPY    ON    A    LITTLE.  89 

humbly  to  her  old  home  and  sought  forgiveness.  She  was  not 
repulsed,  but  her  reception  was  cold  ;  and  this  hurt  her  almost 
as  badly.  The  shadow  of  a  dark  wing  was  already  upon  the 
heart  of  the  young  creature  who  had  not  yet  seen  her  nineteenth 
birthday. 

There  was  something  pleasant  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  old 
home  ;  and  when  she  turned  from  it,  to  go  back  among  uncon- 
genial strangers,  there  was  a  tinge  of  sadness  in  her  feelings. 
But  she  did  not  repent  of  what  she  had  done.  Oh,  no  !  She 
was  a  bride,  and  would  go  any  where  and  endure  any  thing  to 
be  with  her  husband,  whom  she  loved  better  than  life  itself. 

The  income  of  Philip  Harper  was  six  dollars  a  week ;  and 
just  six  dollars  was  the  price  he  had  to  pay  for  boarding  himself 
and  his  wife,  and  this  not  in  a  house  of  the  betfer  class.  But, 
he  was  well  enough  acquainted  with  the  rule  of  simple  subtrac- 
tion, to  know,  that  if  six  be  taken  from  six,  nothing  remains.  It 
was  not,  therefore,  his  intention  to  stay  where  he  was.  They 
must  keep  house,  that  was  understood  from  the  first.  As  to  the 
exact  style  of  the  proposed  house  keeping,  neither  of  them  had 
thought  much.  It  was  to  be  plain  as  a  matter  of  course ;  and 
they  were  to  live  very  frugally. 

As  Harper  had  saved  nothing  from  his  salary,  and,  therefore, 
had  nothing  ahead — not  even  so  much  as  a  ten  dollar  bill — the 
finely  balanced  equality  between  his  income  and  the  cost  of 
boarding  soon  admonished  him  that  a  change  must  speedily  be 
made.  So  the  subject  of  immediate  house  keeping  came  up  for 
consideration. 

"  We  will  only  want  a  couple  of  rooms,  a  parlor  and  bed- 
chamber," said  Philip,  whose  ideas  on  the  subject  were  not  very 
far  out  of  the  way. 

"  Only  two  rooms!"  returned  Fanny,  evidently  taken  by  sur- 
prise, at  this  suggestion. 

"  Cannot  we  live  as  happily  in  two  comfortable  rooms  as  if  we 
were  in  a  whole  house  ?"  enquired  the  young  man. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Fanny.  "  But  I  never  thought 
of  that." 

"  We  are  not  able  to  rent  a  whole  house.  A  very  small  one 
would  cost  us  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars ;  and  you  know  that 
our  income  is  but  three  hundred.  A  couple  of  very  good  rooms 
can  be  had  for  fifty  or  sixty  dollars  ;  and  in  them  we  may  be  as 
happy  as  if  we  occupied  a  palace. 
8* 


90  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  But  were  is  the  cooking  to  be  done  ?  And  where  will  the 
servant  sleep  ?"  enquired  Fanny. 

These  were  questions  that  the  young  man  felt  himself  puzzled 
to  answer.  As  for  a  servant,  he  had  not  taken  that  family  ap- 
pendage into  the  account  of  expenses.  Fanny  understood,  be- 
fore they  were  married,  that  his  income  was  small,  and  that  they 
would  have  to  live  humbly  and  frugally.  He  worked  hard  all 
day  with  his  hands  as  we'll  as  with  his  thoughts ;  and  he  had 
taken  it  for  granted,  without  much  reflection,  that  in  working  at 
home,  in  her  little  household,  Fanny  would  find  a  dear  delight, 
especially  as  to  make  him  happy  would  be  the  end  of  her  toil. 
What  would  they  want  with  a  servant?  Philip  Harper  had 
something  yet  to  learn  ! 

"  No  doubt,"  he  replied,  with  less  ardor  in  his  tone  of  voice, 
"  that  we  could  easily  arrange  for  a  servant's  bed  in  the  garret, 
and  for  the  privilege  of  using  the  kitchen." 

"  Such  an  arrangement  would  make  endless  trouble  with  our 
servant  and  the  domestics  of  the  other  family.  We  would  be 
continually  in  hot  water." 

Harper  felt  hurt  at  this  throwing  of  his  plans  back  upon  him, 
after  he  had  thought  them  all  out. 

"  But  it  is  out  of  the  question,"  he  replied,  a  little  coldly, 
"  to  think  of  renting  an  entire  house,  unless  we  take  some  little 
box,  in  a  narrow  court,  among  the  poorest  class  of  people.  In 
no  way  can  we  be  so  genteel  and  comfortable  as  in  a  part  of  a 
house  in  a  good  neighborhood." 

Fanny  was  not  unreasonable.  A  little  reflection  caused  her 
to  see  that  her  husband  was  right,  although  she  could  not  help 
showing  the  disappointment  she  felt  at  the  thought  of  living  in 
two  rooms. 

After  searching  for  a  couple  of  weeks,  rooms  in  a  good  neigh- 
borhood were  found,  for  which,  with  the  privilege  of  the  kitchen 
and  a  bed  for  the  servant,  a  rent  of  seventy-five  dollars  was 
asked.  Fanny  liked  the  rooms,  and  so  they  were  engaged.  But, 
the  next  thing  was  to  furnish  them.  There  was  only  one  way 
in  which  this  could  be  done  ;  and  that  was  in  the  way  of  credit. 
This  being  the  only  horn  of  the  dilemma,  Harper  took  hold  of 
it.  A  friend  kept  a  furnishing  warehouse,  and  readily  supplied 
him  with  all  he  wanted  on  liberal  time.  But  a  debt  of  two  hun- 
dred dollars  due,  according  to  agreement,  in  nine  months,  added 
nothing  to  the  comfort  of  the  young  man's  new  home  ;  more 


HAPPY    ON    A    LITTLE.  91 

particularly,  as  he  soon  discovered  that  Fanny's  ideas  about 
economy  and  humble  life  were  altogether  vague,  and  that  it 
took  every  cent  of  his  six  dollars  a  week  to  meet  the  expense 
of  the  family,  exclusive  of  rent  and  clothing.  Talking  to  Fan- 
ny and  trying  to  make  her  comprehend  the  embarrassing  nature 
of  his  position,  and  the  necessity  for  a  more  careful  system  of  ex- 
penditure, had  no  good  effect,  but  only  clouded  her  mind  and 
made  her  unhappy.  In  a  month  after  taking  possession  of  their 
new  home,  the  young  man  was  so  troubled  at  the  prospect  be- 
fore him,  as  to  be  really  miserable,  and  this  state  of  mind,  re- 
acting upon  his  young  and  inexperienced  wife,  made  her  as 
wretched  as  himself. 

A  few  months  caused  the  error  that  had  been  committed  to 
become  apparent  to  both  parties.  Unhappily,  neither  Harper  nor 
his  wife  had  ever  passed  through  any  serious  mental  discipline, 
nor  had  they,  previous  to  marriage,  been  called  upon  to  practise 
the  virtues  of  self-denial,  patience  and  forbearance.  Young  and 
inexperienced,  they  had  taken  upon  themselves  new  duties  and 
assumed  new  relations,  without  fairly  counting  the  cost. 

Try  as  he  would,  Harper  could  not  induce  Fanny  to  practice 
that  rigid  economy  called  for  by  imperious  necessity.  She  would 
spend  money  for  this  and  that  little  thing,  and  when  he  looked 
serious  about  it,  she  would  be  hurt.  The  fact  was,  she  did  about 
as  well  as  she  knew  how.  Of  domestic  economy  she  was  thor- 
oughly ignorant,  and  knew  as  little  about  managing  in  household 
matters  as  she  did  at  twelve  years  of  age. 

As  little  debts  accumulated  here  and  there,  and  the  time  at 
which  the  payment  of  the  furniture  was  to  be  made,  drew  nearer 
and  nearer,  Harper  became  more  and  more  restless,  impatient 
and  cold  towards  his  bride.  He  was  on  the  rack,  and  it  was 
not  to  be  supposed  that  he  could  be  cheerful,  loving  and  con- 
siderate as  at  first.  Poor  Fanny  felt  all  this.  Her  husband  was 
strangely  altered.  Instead  of  being  affectionately  deferential  to 
her  as  he  had  been,  he  was  captious,  fault-finding  and  moody. 
And  her  feelings,  too,  were  soured.  To  think  of  enduring  pri- 
vations with  and  for  one  we  love,  is  all  very  beautiful;  the 
charm  of  romance  is  in  the  idea.  But,  the  reality  is  something 
so  different  from  the  fancy,  that  they  do  not  at  all  agree  togeth- 
er, and  affect  the  mind  in  a  different  way.  The  eagerness  with 
which  Fanny  sprung  to  meet  her  husband  when  she  heard  his 
step,  was,  already,  a  thing  of  other  days.  To  her  he  was  so 


92  SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER. 

changed,  that  his  presence  was  felt  as  a  pressure  upon  her  spir- 
its. All,  too,  was  so  different  from  what  she  had  anticipated. 
It  was  so  cheerless,  this  being  shut  up  all  alone  in  a  single 
room  ;  and  she  took  no  pleasure  in  walking  out.  Self-denial, 
too,  had  to  be  practiced  in  almost  every  thing.  The  simplest 
want,  beyond  mere  food,  could  not  be  supplied;  or,  if  she  ven- 
tured upon  the  experiment  of  doing  so,  her  purchase  was  rather 
frowned  upon  than  approved. 

Unhappy  Harper !  He  did  not  mean  to  be  unkind  to  his 
wife,  but  the  pressure  that  was  upon  all  sides  distressed  and  be- 
wildered him. — It  happened  one  day,  just  as  he  was  about  lea- 
ving the  store  in  which  he  was  employed,  to  return  home  to 
dinner,  that  a  man  to  whom  he  owed  five  dollars  for  a  pair  of 
boots,  called  with  his  bill ;  and  as  he  had  called  several  times 
before  without  getting  his  money,  he  took  it  upon  himself,  on  the 
present  occasion,  to  speak  out  his  mind  pretty  plainly,  to  the  no 
small  annoyance  of  his  unhappy  debtor.  With  the  smart  of  this 
interview  still  fresh  upon  his  feelings,  Harper  came  home.  As 
he  walked  along,  and  thought  over  his  affairs,  he  became  more 
thoroughly  disheartened  than  he  had  yet  been.  It  was  a  little 
over  six  months  since  the  important  step  of  providing  for  him- 
self a  wife  had  been  taken,  and  in  counting  up  the  little  bills 
of  one  kind  and  another  which  had  been  run  up  here  and  there, 
since  that  time,  he  found  himself  in  debt,  including  the  amount 
due  for  furniture,  about  three  hundred  dollars.  Twenty-five  dol- 
lars of  this  sum  was  for  rent.  Frugally  as  he  had  tried  to  live,  and 
rigid  as  had  been  his  self-denial,  it  had  cost  him,  in  six  months, 
throwing  out  the  price  of  his  furniture,  just  one  hundred  dol- 
lars more  than  his  income.  As  all  this  came  up  before  his  mind, 
it  distressed  him  deeply.  In  this  state  he  came  home.  Fanny 
had  been  out  in  company  with  a  young  friend  who  was  on  a 
shopping  expedition.  She  had  seen  the  pattern  of  a  dress  that 
pleased  her  fancy  much,  and  as  she  had  not  bought  a  single 
new  dress  since  her  marriage,  nor  indeed,  scarcely  an  article  of 
clothing  in  all  that  time,  it  did  not  appear  unreasonable  for  her 
to  want  to  buy  this  one.  So,  as  soon  as  her  husband  had  en- 
tered the  room,  and  before  taking  time  to  observe  the  aspect  of 
his  face,  she  said,  with  a  good  deal  of  animation — 

"  Oh  Phillip  !  I  saw  such  a  beauty  of  a  dress  in  Market  street 
to-day,  and  I  must  have  it.  It  will  only  cost  three  dollars.  Don't 
you  think  you  can  spare  me  that  much  this  week  ?" 


HAPPY    ON    A    LITTLE.  93 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  of  dresses  !"  replied  Harper,  fretfully,  as 
he  disengaged  himself  rudely  from  Fanny,  who  had  drawn  her 
arm  within  his. 

The  instant  the  young  man  had  said  this,  he  regretted  the 
hasty  and  impatient  speech  ;  Fanny  had  shrunk  from  him  as 
quickly  as  if  with  his  hand  he  had  pushed  her  away,  and  sink- 
ing into  a  chair  she  burst  into  tears.  As  the  young  wife  sat 
weeping,  Harper  stood  with  contracted  brow  and  compressed 
lips,  justifying  himself  for  what  he  had  done,  by  mentally  charg- 
ing Fanny  with  a  selfish  disregard  for  him  in  the  troubles  with 
which  he  was  encompassed,  and  as  having  deceived  him  in  her 
promise  to  conform  in  all  things  to  his  humble  condition.  Thus, 
in  permitting  himself  to  write  bitter  things  against  his  young 
and  inexperienced  wife,  he  suffered  an  estrangement  towards  her, 
and  became  imbued  with  a  harsh  and  unsympathising  spirit. 

For  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Harper  waited  for  his  wife  to 
join  him  at  the  table  where  he  had  seated  himself.  But,  with 
her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  she  sat  immovable.  He  spoke  to 
her  twice,  but  she  did  not  answer.  This  provoked  him — so  ri- 
sing up  without  having  tasted  food,  he  put  on  his  hat  and  left 
the  house,  not  even  uttering  a  word  as  he  did  so. 

The  young  man  did  not  feel  very  comfortable  during  the  af- 
ternoon, as  may  well  be  supposed.  His  sky  was  troubled  enough 
before — now  it  wore  a  darker  aspect.  At  least  an  hour  earlier 
than  usual  he  was  on  his  way  home.  On  entering  his  sitting- 
room,  he  found  no  one  there.  He  went  into  the  chamber — that 
also  was  tenantless.  A  feeling  of  loneliness  came  over  him. 
What  if  Fanny,  wounded  by  his  unkindness,  had  deserted  him 
and  gone  back  to  her  friends  ?  The  thought,  coming  suddenly, 
caused  the  blood  to  tingle  in  the  very  ends  of  his  fingers.  He 
called  the  servant  and  inquired  for  his  wife.  The  servant  knew 
nothing  more  than  that  she  had  gone  out  some  hours  before. 
The  night  came  down,  but  Fanny  was  still  away.  Harper  be- 
gan to  feel  very  anxious.  That  her  absence  was  in  some  way 
connected  with  his  unkindness  towards  her,  he  did  not  doubt; 
but  the  question  was,  where  had  she  gone? 

A  Few  hours  before,  as  the  aunt  of  Fanny  sat  alone  in  her 
room,  the  door  was  suddenly  thrown  open  and  the  latter  entered. 

"  Oh  aunt !  let  me  come  home  again,"  she  sobbed,  as  she 
sank  down  by  her  side,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  lap,  "  I  am  so 
unhappy !" 


94  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  Unhappy,  child  !  Why  should  you  be  unhappy  ?"  enquired 
Mrs.  Alexander,  endeavoring  to  raise  her  weeping  niece.  "  Is 
not  Phillip  kind  to  you." 

"  He  is  so  changed,  aunt  Mary !— and  he  grows  colder  and  more 
indifferent  towards  me  every  day." 

"  Calm  yourself,  my  child  ;  you  are  too  much  excited,"  said 
Mrs.  Alexander,  kindly.  "  Come,  get  up  and  take  off  your 
things,  and  when  you  are  more  composed  we  will  talk  this  mat- 
ter over." 

The  aunt  soon  understood  pretty  clearly  the  nature  of  the  dif- 
ficulty. Much  more  clearly  than  Fanny  understood  it  herself. 
Soothing  her  as  best  she  could,  but  without  offering  any  advice, 
Mrs.  Alexander  waited  until  her  husband  came  home.  On  learn- 
ing the  state  of  affairs  between  the  young  couple,  Mr.  Alexan- 
der said,  without  looking  very  serious  or  showing  much  sur- 
prise— 

"  It's  just  as  I  expected.  Poverty  has  come  in  at  the  door 
and  love  flown  out  of  the  window." 

"  Oh  no !  not  so  bad  as  that  I  hope,"  returned  Mrs.  Alexan- 
der, "  love  has'nt  flown  ;  she  is  only  under  a  cloud." 

"  She  seems  to  have  flown  from  Phillip's  dwelling  to  ours  at 
least.  Though  I  presume  she  will  be  glad  to  get  back  again 
before  to-morrow  morning,  if  not  before  ten  o'clock  to-night." 

"  I  think  you  make  too  light  of  this  matter  entirely,"  said  Mrs. 
Alexander  seriously.  "  The  poor  child  is  wretched." 

"  Oh  no,  not  at  all !  The  whole  affair  is  not  much  better  than 
a  farce.  I  looked  for  something  of  this  kind  to  take  place,  though 
I  must  own  it  has  come  rather  early.  So  much  for  getting  mar- 
ried on  three  hundred  dollars  a  year ! — but  what  else  is  to  be 
expected  of  children?" 

"  It  is  rather  serious  child's  play." 

"  No  doubt  they  have  found  it  so.  But  I  suppose  they  are 
sufficiently  punished,  and  we  must  try  if  we  cannot  help  love 
back  again  through  the  window,  by  assisting  to  drive  poverty  out 
at  the  door." 

Harper  was  sitting  half  beside  himself,  in  his  little  parlor,  an 
hour  after  nightfall,  listening  eagerly  to  every  passing  footstep. 
Each  moment  seemed  an  age  of  suspense.  Where  could  Fan- 
ny have  gone  ?  What  was  the  meaning  of  her  strange  absence? 
Unable  longer  to  endure  the  doubts  and  fears  that  were  pressing 
on  his  mind,  he  had  started  up,  and  was  preparing  to  go  out  in 


HAPPY    ON    A    LITTLE.  95 

search  of  her,  when  some  one  rang  the  bell.  He  paused  to  lis- 
ten, and  stood  with  his  head  bent  in  order  to  catch  the  first  sound 
of  Fanny's  voice,  or  the  echo  of  her  well  known  tread  along  the 
passage.  The  door  was  opened  ;  he  bent  more  eagerly  forward 
to  listen.  It  was  a  man's  voice  that  he  heard  !  With  a  feeling 
of  faintness  he  sunk  upon  a  chair.  Ere  he  had  recovered  him- 
self, there  was  a  knock  at  his  own  door.  "  Come  in,"  he  cried, 
in  a  low  voice.  His  heart  was  beating  in  heavy,  suffocating  pul- 
sations. 

Mr.  Alexander  entered.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  unbent 
himself  from  his  dignified  reserve  and  assumed  indifference 
enough  to  visit  the  humble  abode  into  which  his  neice  had  re- 
tired. As  he  came  in,  Harper  arose  and  advanced  a  step  or  two ; 
but  though  he  tried  to  speak  he  did  not  succeed  in  giving  utter- 
ance to  a  word. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  and  Fanny  ?"  said  Mr.  Alexan- 
der abruptly,  helping  himself  to  a  chair  as  he  spoke. 

Harper  stammered  out  something  in  a  confused  manner,  but 
his  words  were  unintelligible. 

"  So  it  seems,"  Mr.  Alexander  went  on,  "  that  you  can't  af- 
ford your  little  wife  as  much  spending  money  as  she  wants,  and 
the  consequence  is,  she  goes  off  in  a  pet.  Humph  !  I  thought 
this  would  be  the  upshot  of  the  matter." 

Although  there  was  nothing  offensive  in  the  way  this  was  said, 
the  words  to  which  Mr.  Alexander  had  given  utterance,  smart- 
ed on  the  young  man's  feelings,  and  he  replied  with  more  inde- 
pendence and  firmness  than  had  been  expected., 

"Come,  come  !"  was  Mr.  Alexander's  good  natured  response 
to  this.  "  We  won't  quarrel  here  all  to  ourselves — I  did'rit  come 
for  that  purpose.  Fanny  is  at  our  house  in  a  world  of  trouble, 
and  I  suppose  you  are  equally  afflicted.  I  want  to  see  if  some- 
thing can't  be  done  to  make  all  right  again.  And,  in  the  first 
place,  may  I  ask  if  you  have  had  any  increase  of  salary?" 

"  None,"  replied  the  young  man. 

"  Then  you  are  in  debt  of  course  ?" 

Harper  was  silent. 

"  And  in  trouble  also  ?" 

The  whole  air  and  expression  of  the  young  man  answered  that 
question. 

u  How  much  have  you  gone  behind  hand  ?" 

"  I  owe  about  a  hundred  dollars  in  little  bills." 


96  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

And  for  this  furniture  besides  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Nothing  more  than  I  expected.  But  it's  no  use  talking  about 
that  now.  Won't  Mr.  Peters  raise  your  salary  ?" 

«  No— I've  asked  him." 

"  Well,  Edwards  left  me  to-day,  and  I  reckon  I  can't  do  bet- 
ter than  take  you  in  his  place,  if  you  will  come  for  what  I  paid 
him — five  hundred  dollars." 

A  sudden  brightness  came  into  the  young  man's  face. 

"  Will  you  come  ?" 

"  I  will ;  and  from  my  heart  I  thank  you  for  the  offer,"  re- 
plied Harper  with  much  feeling. 

"  Very  well,  that's  settled." 

"  I  am  sorry ;"  the  young  man's  voice  faltered  and  he  looked 
confused  and  troubled  ;  "  that  I  spoke  so  harshly  to  Fanny.  But 
if  you  only  knew  how  unhappy  I  was  when  I  came  home — " 

"  Oh  never  mind  about  that !  Better  men  than  you  have  done 
worse  things  than  speak  a  little  impatiently  to  their  wives.  Fan- 
ny's forgiven  it  all.  But  if  we  don't  go  to  her  soon  she  will  cry 
her  eyes  out  for  grief  at  having  so  wickedly  deserted  your  bed 
and  board.  So  put  on  your  hat  and  come  home  with  me,  and 
if  you  and  Fanny  behave  like  good  children,  perhaps  we  won't 
let  you  go  back  again." 

The  young  couple  were  permitted,  on  the  arrival  of  Harper 
with  Mr.  Alexander,  to  meet  alone.  How  they  wept  in  each 
others  arms  and  exchanged  kisses  of  forgiveness  need  not  be  told. 
When  Fanny  learned  the  good  fortune  that  had  come  just  at 
their  darkest  time,  and  also  that  she  was  to  live  "  at  home"  again, 
she  was  half  wild  with  delight.  Scarcely  less  pleased  were  the 
uncle  and  aunt,  who  had  never  felt  happy  since  her  face  was 
missed  in  their  dwelling.  As  for  the  little  lady,  it  was  a  lucky 
thing  for  her  as  well  as  for  her  husband  that  she  had  an  uncle 
and  aunt  to  fall  back  upon  when  their  path  became  hedged  up 
with  difficulties.  A  large  number  who  try  a  similar  experiment 
are  far  from  being  as  fortunate.  This  being  Happy  on  a  little  is 
well  enough  to  talk  about. 


-HE  VILLAGE  HORSEBLOCK. 


THE  VILLAGE  HOKSE-BLOCK. 


The  village  horse-block !  How  do  the  words  bring  pleasing 
yet  sad  recollections!  The  shrinking  hand  you  grasped,  and  the 
timid,  blushing  face  into  which  you  looked  so  often,  at  the  vil- 
lage horse-block,  where  are  they  ?  The  sister  you  loved  so  ten- 
derly, does  she  yet  live  ?  and  is  she  happy  ?  And  the  gentle 
friend  to  whom  you  confided  your  first  love-secret,  and  of  whom 
you  took  counsel,  how  fares  it  with  her?  Once  every  week,  at 
the  hour  when  the  Sabbath  bell  rung,  you  stood  by  the  old  horse- 
block, and  there  was  a  pressure  of  hands  even  more  earnest  than 
the  simple  occasion  required.  But  many  years  have  passed  since 
then,  and  you  have  gone  out  from  the  unambitious  village  or 
pleasant  rural  districts,  into  the  busy,  struggling,  selfish  world  ; 
and  it  may  be  a  long  time  since  your  thoughts  have  gone  back 
realizingly  to  the  old  place.  Look,  now,  upon  that  primitive 
horse-block,  the  sturdy  relic  of  some  old  oak  that  has  braved  the 
tempests  of  a  century,  and  let  the  dear  images  of  the  past,  that 
have  only  been  covered  by  the  dust  of  time,  once  more  stand 
out  in  full  relief  on  memory's  tablet.  Have  you  been  true  to  the 
pledges  of  that  early  time  ?  Is  your  heart  as  pure  as  when  you 
left  the  pleasant  homestead  and  turned  your  face,  in  the  vigor  of 
young,  hopeful  manhood,  towards  the  great  cities  where  life 
comes  into  its  most  absorbing  activities  ?  Ah  !  we  fear  that,  to 
all,  such  a  reminiscence  will  not  bring  happy  feelings ;  for  how 
few,  in  going  up  through  the  temptations  of  early  manhood,  re- 
tain the  innocency  of  life's  first  estate. 

Many  years  ago,  there  lived,  near  the  pleasant  village  of 
Greenwood,  a  blue-eyed  maiden.  Her  name  was  Lucy  Arden. 
She  was  beautiful,  and  those  who  knew  her  best,  said  that  she 
was  as  good  as  she  was  beautiful.  More  than  one  rustic  lover 
sought  to  win  the  heart  of  Lucy,  but  she  remained  cold  to  all 
9  97 


98  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

save  Martin  Herbert,  and  he  was  the  least  ardent  of  any.  Yet 
whenever  he  spoke  to  Lucy,  or  looked  into  her  face,  or  touched 
her  hand,  the  voice,  the  look,  the  touch  went  electrically  to  her 
heart.  Herbert  was  ever  present  to  the  mind  of  Lucy.  Daily 
her  thoughts  went  forth  to  seek  for  him,  and  nightly  he  came  to 
her  in  pleasant  dreams.  Yet  they  saw  each  other  only  once  in 
each  week,  and  then  but  for  a  few  brief  moments.  Lucy  lived 
a  mile  away  from  the  village  church,  to  which  she  came  every 
Sabbath  on  horseback,  accompanied  by  her  father  and  mother  in 
the  old  "  gig,"  and  as  she  rode  up  to  the  horse-block  to  dis- 
mount, Herbert  was  always  there  to  take  her  hand  and  gently 
assist  her  from  the  saddle.'  And  she  always  waited  until  he  had 
tied  her  horse  under  the  shade  of  a  tree,  and  returned  to  walk  to 
the  door  by  her  side.  He  never  entered  with  her,  and  rarely 
had  any  thing  to  say  beyond  a  passing  remark  on  the  weather, 
or  an  inquiry  if  she  had  been  well  since  their  last  meeting.  Af- 
ter Lucy  had  taken  her  seat  by  the  side  of  her  parents,  Herbert 
would  come  in  and  sit  down  near  the  door;  and  when  the  ser- 
mon was  over,  and  the  congregation  had  been  dismissed,  he 
would  lead  up  her  horse  to  the  block,  and  after  assisting  her  into 
the  saddle,  bid  her  a  smiling  yet  half  distant  good-bye. 

And  thus  it  went  on  for  months,  without  his  approaching 
nearer,  or  breathing  in  the  maiden's  ear  a  whisper  of  what  was 
in  his  heart. 

Lucy  was  young.  Only  nineteen  years  had  passed  since  her 
blue  eyes  first  reflected  the  laughing  light.  And  Herbert  was 
but  twenty-two.  He  was  the  son  of  a  wealthy  farmer,  whose 
beautiful  estate  lay  a  few  miles  from  the  more  humble  home  that 
was  made  glad  by  the  presence  of  the  gentle  maiden.  He  had 
never  visited  her  father's  house,  nor  had  he  thought  seriously  of 
becoming  a  lover.  She  had  presented  herself  like  a  sweet  wild- 
flower  by  the  wayside,  and  he  could  but  pause  to  inhale,  as  it 
were,  the  pleasant  odor  that  filled  the  air  around  her.  He  saw 
her  beauty  and  felt  the  sphere  of  her  goodness ;  and  these  were 
the  powers  that  drew  him  to  her  side.  Sabbath  after  Sabbath, 
scarcely  reflecting  upon  the  ultimate  consequences  likely  to  flow 
from  the  act,  he  pressed  forward  to  assist  Lucy  to  dismount  on 
her  arrival  at  the  little  church,  and  held  her  hand  as  he  did  so 
in  a  more  earnest  grasp  than  the  real  state  of  his  feeling  war- 
ranted. To  him  it  was  a  passing  pleasure,  while  upon  "her  the 
act  made  an  ineffaceable  impression. 


THE   VILLAGE    HORSE-BLOCK.  99 

A  year  after  this  strange  kind  of  intimacy  began,  young  Mar- 
tin Herbert  left  home  for  a  residence  in  one  of  the  Atlantic  ci- 
ties, where,  after  serving  a  short  probation  as  a  clerk  in  a  mer- 
cantile house,  he  entered  into  business.  Twelve  months  elapsed 
without  his  seeing  Lucy.  He  had  been  home  once  or  twice,  but 
only  remaining  two  or  three  days  each  time,  he  had  not  happened 
to  visit  the  old  country  church,  and  had  not,  therefore,  met  with 
Lucy.  Still  he  often  thought  of  her,  and  as  he  mingled  with  the 
more  showy  and  attractive  city  belles,  frequently  drew  contrasts 
between  her  and  them,  sometimes  favorable  and  sometimes  un- 
favorable. 

Gradually  the  simplicity  of  Herbert's  character  changed.  As 
he  came  into  a  more  cultivated,  refined  and  artificial  state  of 
society,  he  grew  like  those  with  whom  he  associated,  and  saw 
and  felt  as  they  did.  If,  now,  he  thought  sometimes  of  the  gen- 
tle girl  whose  hand  had  every  Sabbath  lingered  in  his  by  the  old 
village  horse-block,  it  was  with  different  feelings  towards  her 
from  those  he  had  once  entertained.  Never  having  visited  Lucy 
at  her  father's  house,  never  having  whispered  in  her  ear  a  ten- 
d.er  sentiment,  never  having,  by  any  overt  and  unequivocal  act, 
declared  himself  a  lover,  he  did  not  feel  pledged  to  her  in  any 
way.  Yet,  for  all  this,  when  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  would  come 
up  at  times  before  him,  his  heart  would  move  towards  her  with 
a  deeply  grounded  feeling  of  pleasure.  But  even  these  states  of 
mind  became  of  less  and  less  frequent  occurrence. 

The  first  meeting  with  Lucy,  after  his  removal  from  Green- 
wood to  the  city,  took  place  after  the  lapse  of  a  year.  Herbert 
had  come  home  to  spend  a  week,  and  a  Sunday  intervening,  he 
went  with  the  family  to  church.  It  was  in  the  green  and  fra- 
grant month  of  June.  As  he  rode  along  the  old  familiar  way, 
the  soft  airs  melted,  caressingly,  as  in  former  times,  upon  his 
forehead  ;  the  birds  sang  among  the  trees  as  they  had  sung  for 
him  ever  since  he  was  a  boy ;  and  the  atmosphere  was  loaded 
with  the  perfume  of  sweet  shrubs  and  flowers,  as  it  had  always 
been  in  the  early  summer  time.  He  rode  along  in  silence  ;  but 
his  thoughts  were  busy,  and  old  emotions  were  stealing  back 
into  his  heart.  Presently,  through  an  opening  in  the  trees,  he 
saw  the  white  spire  of  the  village  church ;  and,  just  then,  the 
mellow  tones  of  the  bell  came  faintly  to  his  ears.  How  all  the 
past  arose  before  him  ! 

In  a  little  while  they  were  at  the  church.     Many  familiar  faces 


100  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

were  there  in  the  little  groups  that  gathered  around  to  exchange 
friendly  greetings  before  the  service  began.  Herbert  stood  talk- 
ing with  a  few  old  friends,  when,  just  as  it  had  been  in  former 
times,  Lucy  came  riding  up.  As  she  drew  in  her  horse  at  the 
block,  he  stepped  forward  quickly,  and  in  advance  of  a  young 
man  who  stood  near,  to  assist  her  to  alight.  The  act  was  in- 
stinctive. 

"  Why,  Lucy!"  he  said,  as  he  took  her  hand  and  grasped  it 
tightly.  "  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you !" 

A  warm  flush  came  over  the  face  of  the  young  girl,  and  her 
eyes  looked  into  his  with  a  tender  expression. 

"  Have  you  been  very  well  ?"  he  inquired,  in  a  voice  of  real 
interest,  as  they  passed  through  the  little  gate  and  lingered  on  the 
path  that  led  to  the  church  door. 

Lucy  did  not  trust  herself  to  utter  a  reply,  lest  she  should  too 
fully  betray  the  trembling  joy  of  her  heart  at  seeing  him  once 
more,  and  hearing  his  voice  in  the  kind  words  and  tones  of 
old. 

"  How  everj-  thing  reminds  me  of  other  days  !"  said  Herbert, 
bending  forward  and  gazing  into  Lucy's  face. 

No  other  word  was  said,  for  they  were  at  the  church  door, 
and  the  half-bewildered  maiden  passed  in  to  take  her  place  amid 
the  worshippers.  If  Lucy  sung  that  day  with  the  rest,  when  the 
voice  of  the  congregation  took  up  the  hymn  of  praise,  it  was  not 
with  the  "  spirit  and  the  understanding ;"  if  she  breathed  a  pray- 
er when  the  people  knelt,  it  was  only  lip-service  ;  and  if  she 
heard  the  words  of  holy  instruction  from  the  minister,  they  came 
but  to  her  external  ear.  She  saw  only  the  form  of  Herbert — 
heard  only  his  voice — thought  only  of  him. 

When  the  service  ended,  Lucy  found  Herbert,  as  of  old,  ready 
to  assist  her  at  the  horse-block.  After  she  was  in  the  saddle, 
and  he  had  placed  the  rein  in  her  hand,  she  paused  a  moment 
with  her  eyes  upon  his  face. 

"  Good-by,  Lucy,"  said  the  young  man,  waving  his  hand  with 
a  polite  air.  He  then  turned  to  some  friends,  and  Lucy,  with 
her  heart  trembling  down  sadly  in  her  bosom,  moved  slowly 
away.  The  tone  in  which  the  "  good-bye"  was  spoken,  told 
her  but  too  plainly  that  Herbert  was  really  indifferent,  and  that 
she  had  cherished  a  hopeless  passion.  To  the  young  man  who 
rode  by  her  side,  as  she  passed  homeward,  she  had  little  to  say, 
although  he  strove  hard  to  interest  and  draw  her  into  conversation 


THE    VILLAGE    HORSE-BLOCK.  101 

It  was  a  year  before  Lucy  and  Herbert  met  again ;  and  as 
in  former  times,  so  now,  it  was  at  the  village  horse-block.  She 
rode  up  at  the  moment  when  Herbert  was  lifting  from  her  horse 
a  young  city  bride,  and  saw  him  pass  with  her  down  the  little 
pathway  to  the  church,  while  she,  to  whom  the  news  of  his  mar- 
riage had  come  a  few  weeks  before  remained  half  uncon- 
sciously gazing  after  them.  As  she  sat  thus,  a  young  man  who 
had  long  sought  her  favor,  stepped  forward  and  gave  her  his 
hand. 

She  slightly  started  as  he  spoke,  for  she  had  almost  forgotten 
where  she  was.  Then  thanking  him  in  a  kinder  tone  than  usual, 
for  she  had  always  treated  him  with  reserve,  she  permitted  him 
to  assist  her  to  step  from  her  horse. 

Perhaps  even  less  of  the  services  of  the  morning  came  into 
the  perception  of  Lucy's  mind  than  on  the  occasion  of  her  last 
meeting  with  Herbert.  As  for  her  eyes,  they  were  no  where  but 
upon  the  richly  dressed  bride.  Once,  when  the  latter  turned 
partly  round,  and  Lucy  saw  her  face,  she  sighed  deeply.  The 
thought  of  her  heart  was — 

"  I  could  have  loved  him  more  tenderly  than  she."  And  it 
may  be  that  she  was  right. 

A  little  while,  and,  the  benediction  said,  those  who  had  come 
up  to  worship  separated.  As  Herbert  was  moving  down  the  aisle, 
his  eyes  suddenly  rested  upon  the  countenance  of  Lucy.  She 
was  looking  at  him.  It  was  a  long  time  ere  he  forgot  the  ex- 
pression of  her  pale  face,  or,  ere  he  ceased  to  regret  having  offer- 
ed the  maiden  those  slight  attentions  which,  it  was  too  evident, 
had  won  her  heart. 

After  this,  Lucy  Arden  became  less  cold  towards  one  who  had 
continued  to  seek  her  favor  through  a  long  and  discouraging 
period.  At  the  end  of  another  year  she  gave  him  her  hand,  and 
all  of  her  heart  that  it  remained  in  her  power  to  bestow.  Some- 
times, even  after  she  had  made  her  solemn  vows  at  the  altar, 
her  thoughts  would  go  back  to  the  time  when  her  hand  lay  pas- 
sive in  the  warm  grasp  of  Herbert ;  but  quickly  expelling  these 
thoughts,  and  stifling  the  feelings  that  accompanied  them,  she 
turned  herself  towards  one  who  was  best  entitled  to,  and  worthy 
of  all  her  regard.  She  was  happy — happier,  it  may  be,  than  if 
she  had  become  the  wife  of  Herbert.  Yet  she  was  more  thought- 
ful and  subdued  in  spirit  than  she  would  have  been  had  not  the 
form  of  Herbert  been  present  in  her  earliest  dream  of  love. 
9* 


102  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

They  did  not  meet  again  for  ten  years.  As  before,  it  was  at 
the  village  horse-block.  Both  were  changed — both  had  seen 
sorrow.  Herbert  had  failed  in  his  mercantile  pursuits,  and  lost 
the  mother  of  his  three  young  children.  He  had  come  back  to 
his  old  home,  disappointed,  subdued,  and  humbled  in  spirit.  He 
had  come  back  to  devote  himself  to  agricultural  pursuits  on  the 
old  homestead,  sick  of  excitement  and  the  false  hopes  that  lure 
so  many  on  to  the  bitterest  disappointments.  Nor  had  Lucy's 
life  been  free  from  shadows.  The  one  to  whom  she  had  given 
her  hand,  had,  years  before,  fallen  away  from  her,  and  the  only 
dear  child  that  blessed  their  union  was  sleeping  with  him  in 
the  grave.  Father  and  mother  too,  had  died,  and  she  was  liter- 
ally alone. 

Thus  it  was  with  them  when  they  met  again  at  the  old  horse- 
block, in  the  "  leafy  month  of  June,"  with  the  birds  singing 
around  them,  and  the  Sabbath  bell  ringing  in  their  ears.  It  is 
not  strange  that  old  emotions  were  stirred,  nor  strange  that  ere 
many  months  passed,  Lucy  had  become  the  tender  guardian  of 
Herbert's  children,  and  the  wife  of  his  bosom. 


THE  IDEAL  AND  THE  EEAL. 


"  Beautiful !"  said  Kate,  as  she  paused,  leaning  upon  the  arm 
of  her  cousin,  to  look  at  a  tasteful  cottage,  built  in  the  olden 
style,  a  full  view  of  which  opened  upon  them  through  a  deep 
valley. 

"  It  is,  indeed,  very  beautiful,"  replied  her  companion.  "  That 
is  the  fairest  object  to  look  upon  in  this  picturesque  region  of 
country.  Wealth  has  been  lavished  upon  and  around  it  with  no 
sparing  hand.  Beautiful  as  it  is  to  look  upon  in  the  distance,  it 


THE  IDEAL  AND  THE  REAL.  103 

is  even  more  so  when  viewed,  as  we  might  say,  at  home.  The 
grounds  are  laid  out  with  exquisite  taste,  and  covered  with  the 
choicest  shrubbery.  There  is  the  lawn,  the  flower-garden,  the 
fish-pond,  the  rockery,  and  shaded  walks  leading  to  quiet  places, 
where  you  may  retire,  with  no  companions  but  the  birds  and 
bees,  and  the  air  rich  with  mingled  perfumes  from  a  thousand 
flowers." 

"A  paradise !"  said  Kate,  leaning  toward  her  cousin,  while  a 
glow  of  admiration  passed  over  her  face.  Her  eyes  remained 
fixed  upon  the  lovely  spot.  "An  earthly  paradise !"  she  re- 
sumed. "  How  happy  must  be  the  hearts  that  beat  within  its 
peaceful  boundaries  !  While  looking  upon  a  scene  like  this,  we 
almost  forget  that  there  is  such  a  thing  in  the  world  as  wretch- 
edness. Over  so  bright  a  place  how  pleasant  it  is  to  think 
that  no  cloud  gathers — no  storm  breaks." 

The  cousin  made  no  reply,  and  Kate  went  on. 

"  Could  any  thing  look  more  like  a  fairy  dwelling-place  ?  How 
embracingly  do  those  magnificent  elm  trees  bend  toward  each 
other  above  the  white  walled  cottage,  as  if  they  were  its  natural 
guardians — half  concealing  it,  and  by  the  concealment  making 
all  more  beautiful  and  fairy-like  ?" 

"  You  are  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  nature,  Kate." 

"  But  more  so  of  nature  made  lovelier  by  art.  Can  we  not 
get  a  nearer  view  of  the  sweet  spot  we  are  now  looking  upon  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  the  cousin.  "  Come  !  We  will  descend 
into  the  valley  by  the  path  that  winds  along  by  that  old  mill, 
and  crossing  the  narrow  bridge  you  see  thrown  over  the  stream, 
find  our  way  to  the  very  door  of  the  '  fairy  dwelling,'  as  it  seems 
in  your  eyes." 

Kate  did  not  linger  for  .a  second  invitation,  but  bounded  light- 
ly along  the  path  beside  her  cousin,  humming  a  pleasant  air,  and 
in  a  little  while  had  crossed  the  bridge  and  was  ascending  the 
hill  beyond. 

"  Now  we  have  a  nearer  view,"  said  her  cousin,  pausing  as 
they  gained  the  summit  of  the  hill,  "  without  any  loss  of  the  en- 
chantment that  distance  lends." 

"  The  very  spirit  of  loveliness  reigns  here!"  exclaimed  Kate. 
"  Could  any  thing  be  more  charming !  If  I  dared  indulge  an 
envious  spirit,  I  would  envy  the  happy  possessors  the  good  gift 
they  have  received  and  doubtless  enjoy.  There!  I  see  two  la- 
dies moving  amid  the  shrubbery.  One  is  is  a  sylph-like  girl, 


1Q4  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

and  the  other  has  the  air  and  step  of  maturer  years.  Mother  and 
daughter,  are  they  not?" 

"  Yes." 

"  A  happy  mother  and  a  happy  daughter !  How  full  of  all 
gentle  and  sweet  affections  must  be  the  heart  of  that  fair  young 
creature  ;  nursed,  as  she  has  been  among  the  flowers,  and  every 
sense  filled  from  childhood  with  lovely  and  delightful  things.  Do 
you  know  her,  cousin  ?" 

"  1  do.     We  have  been  friends  for  years." 

"  Indeed  !  How  I  should  love  to  meet  her  !  How  I  should 
love  to  visit  every  sweet  spot  where  her  light  feet  have  lin- 
gered." 

"  We  will  call  and  see  her,  Kate,"  said  the  cousin.  "  But 
do  not  expect  to  find  every  tiling  according  to  your  own  beauti- 
ful ideal.  Wherever  there  are  human  hearts  there  are  human 
passions,  human  weakness  and  human  suffering." 

Those  words  were  uttered  in  a  serious  voice.  Kate  was  star- 
tled and  surprised.  She  looked  into  her  cousin's  face  for  some 
moments,  doubtingly,  but  made  no  reply.  What  she  had  said 
came  over  her  spirits  like  a  cloud  over  a  sunny  prospect. 

The  cousins  moved  from  the  place  where  they  had  been  stand- 
ing, side  by  side,  and  walked  in  silence  for  some  distance.  Kate 
felt  like  weeping.  Full  in  sight  was  the  cottage  and  all  its  taste- 
ful improvements,  but  the  charm  of  their  loveliness  was  gone. 
The  thought  of  "  human  passion,  human  weakness  and  human 
suffering,"  had  come  in  to  mar  the  beauty  of  the  whole. 

In  a  little  while  they  entered  the  grounds  attached  to  the  cot- 
tage, and  passed  along  a  smoothly  graveled  walk,  that  was  lined 
with  flowering  shrubs.  All  was  harmonious  and  beautiful,  be- 
yond even  what  Kate  had  imagined  ;  but  her  eyes  did  not  rest 
upon  any  thing  with  delight.  "  Human  passions,  human  weak- 
ness, human  suffering."  The  words  had  dispelled  the  sweet 
illusion  with  which  she  had  first  looked  upon  the  charming  pros- 
pect. 

As  they  drew  near  to  the  house,  the  ladies  they  had  seen  ad- 
vanced to  meet  them.  A  single  glance  at  the  face  of  the  elder 
of  the  two,  revealed  to  Kate  the  sad  truth  that  sorrow,  guilt  or 
passion,  had  left  indelible  marks  thereon.  Nor  was  the  face  of 
the  young  and  beautiful  girl  who  stood  by  her  side,  a  happy  face, 
notwithstanding  the  cordial  smile  that  lit  up  every  feature  as  she 
greeted  her  ccusin,  and  welcomed  her  with  pleasant  words. 


THE  IDEAL  AND  THE  REAL.  105 

For  half  an  hour  they  strolled  over  the  lovely  place,  and  then, 
after  taking  refreshments  in  the  tastefully  arranged  and  well- 
furnished  library,  returned  home.  Kate  did  not  appear  to  enjoy 
any  thing  she  saw,  and  was  silent  and  thoughtful  as  they  walked 
along  the  wild-wood  path  by  which  they  had  come.  At  length 
they  paused  upon  the  spot  where  Kate  had  first  looked  upon  the 
charming  prospect  which  had  so  delighted  her. 

u  How  has  the  fine  gold  become  dim  !"  said  she,  with  some- 
thing mournful  in  her  voice,  as  her  eyes  again  fell  upon  the  white 
cottage,  half  hid  by  its  warder  elms.  "  To  think  that  sorrow 
should  be  there  !  To  think  that  tears  have  flowed  and  still  flow 
there !  Ah  !  Bessie,  it  makes  me  sad  to  think  of  it.  How  fair 
all  looks  !  How  full  of  beauty  !  Who  could  think,  gazing  as 
we  now  do,  *  of  human  passions,  human  weakness,  human  suf- 
fering ?'  Come,  let  us  sit  down  here,  and  do  you  tell  me  the 
history  of  the  mother  and  daughter  we  have  just  met.  I  will 
listen  to  it  while  I  gaze  upon  their  lovely  home." 

"  Why  here,  Kate  ?"  asked  her  cousin. 

"  It  is  my  humor,  Bessie ;  and  that,  I  need  not  tell  you,  is 
sometimes  wayward.  I  have  received  a  lesson,  and  I  wish  to 
let  it  sink  deeply  into  my  memory.  So  tell  me  about  the  Lis- 
tons.  I  feel  a  strong  interest  in  them." 

"  Their  story  is  soon  told,"  replied  Bessie.  "  Mrs.  Liston  is 
a  woman  of  a  proud  and  haughty  temper.  Her  husband,  a  man 
of  wealth,  education  and  taste,  bore  with  her  imperiousness  un- 
til, with  him,  forbearance  was  no  longer  considered  a  virtue.  A 
year  ago  he  separated  himself  from  her,  and  has  since  resided  in 
New  York.  Such  is  the  story  that  is  told,  and  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that  it  is  true.  I  know  that  Mr.  Liston  has  not  been 
here  for  at  least  twelve  months,  and  that  his  absence  is  a  source 
of  affliction  to  his  family.  Pride,  no  doubt,  keeps  them  asunder, 
and  may  keep  them  asunder  for  years ;  but  the  breach  will  be 
healed  in  time.  Once  healed,  though  a  scar  may  remain,  the 
wound  will  never,  I  think,  open  afresh.  The  remembrance  of 
the  pain  they  now  suffer,  will  be  sufficient  to  prevent  another 
rupture." 

"  Poor  Clara !  How  miserable  she  must  be  !"  said  Kate.  "  If 
I  were  in  her  place,  I  should  be  wretched  beyond  what  I  can 
now  conceive.  Oh,  it  is  dreadful  to  think  about!" 

"  Clara  cannot  be  very  happy.  That  would  be  impossible. 
And  yet,  I  believe  she  is  not  so  wretched  as  you  imagine.  Be- 


106  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER, 

tween  the  real  and  the  ideal,  Kate,  there  is  a  wide  difference. 
In  the  ideal  we  neither  see  nor  feel  what  might  be  called  the 
conservative;  that  is  what  is  real." 

"  But  how  can  she  he  less  than  miserable,  Bessie  ?     It  would 

kill  me!" 

"  No.  Even  in  the  keenest  affliction,  dear  Kate,  there  is  al- 
ways something  to  sustain  the  mind.  In  thinking  about  an  af- 
flicting circumstance,  we  look  only  at  the  distressing  fact.  We 
cannot  see  what  mitigation  would  come  to  give  relief  in  actual 
suffering.  Clara  Listen  feels  deeply  the  painful  estrangement 
that  has  taken  piace  between  her  father  and  mother,  and  her 
separation  from  a  parent  whom  she  tenderly  loves.  But  in  the 
earnest  hope  that  a  re-union  will  soon  take  place,  and  in  the  ef- 
forts that  she  daily  makes  to  sustain  her  mother  in  the  deep  de- 
pression she  suffers,  her  own  mind  is  kept  from  sinking  into 
inaction  and  gloom.  Upon  what  is  merely  external  in  our 
condition,  Kate,  we  are  not  really  dependent  for  happiness. 
Happiness  is  an  internal  state,  and  must  come  from  internal 
causes.  Do  you  see  that  hovel,  as  you  would  doubtless  call  it, 
just  peeping  out  from  the  thick  mass  of  forest  trees  ?" 

Bessie  pointed  with  her  finger  to  the  object  she  named. 

"  I  do,"  replied  Kate.     "  And  a  wretched  looking  hovel  it  is." 

"  You  would  not  expect  to  find  much  happiness  there  ?" 

"  No.  Happiness  and  such  an  external  condition  are  incom- 
patible." 

"  And  yet,  let  me  tell  you,  cousin,  that  there  is  more  of  the 
blessing  you  speak  of  in  that  lowly  hut,  than  in  the  elegant  and 
tasteful  dwelling  we  have  just  visited.  In  our  affections,  Kate, 
lies  the  good  or  evil  of  our  lives;  not  in  the  circumstances  with 
which  we  are  surrounded." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  Bessie,  for  the  lesson  you  have  taught 
me,"  said  Kate  with  warmth,  after  she  had  remained  thoughtful 
for  some  moments.  "  I  see  the  difference  between  the  real  and 
the  ideal,  of  which  we  conversed  this  morning.  I  shall,  here- 
after, put  a  rein  upon  my  young  imagination,  and  not  suffer  my- 
self, as  I  have  too  often  done,  to  look  from  the  present,  the  near, 
the  real,  away  to  the  future,  the  distant,  the  ideal." 

"  Then  you  will  be  a  true  pnilosopher,"  replied  Bessie,  smi- 
ling. "  And  a  wiser  one  than  the  majority  of  those  around  you. 
Still,  in  the  ideal  there  is  something  elevating  and  refining  to  the 
spirit,  for  in  it  comes  our  sweet  dreams  of  perfection  that  we  so 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL  ROOM.  107 

strive  to  realize,  though  we  never  shall,  fully,  in  this  life.  To 
look  upon  the  beautiful  place  now  lying  before  us,  and  think  of 
it  as  occupied  by  those  whose  hearts  are  in  sweet  accordance 
with  the  loveliness  that  surrounds  them,  is  natural  and  right,  if 
it  do  not  make  us  dissatisfied  with  our  own  condition.  The 
imaginative  faculty  of  our  minds  is,  while  kept  in  order,  a  great 
blessing ;  but  when  it  falls  into  disorder,  it  is  a  great  evil." 

The  cousins  walked  back  to  the  home  of  Bessie,  arm  in  arm, 
their  minds  still  following  the  train  of  thought  that  had  been 
suggested.  Kate  had  received  a  lesson  that  she  did  not  soon 
forget. 


THE  BELLE   OF   THE  BALL  BOOM. 


"  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  wild,  frolicsome  creature  ?" 

"  Never." 

"  I  don't  believe  a  sober  thought  crosses  her  mind  from  one 
year's  end  to  another." 

"  A  human  butterfly." 

"  Just  look  at  her,  now." 

"  Ah,  me !  To  see  such  frivolity  in  our  young  girls,  is  really 
sad.  What  can  they  be  thinking  about?  Life  is  too  serious  a 
thing  to  be  trifled  with  in  this  way." 

"  Indeed  it  is." 

Such  was  the  tenor  of  a  conversation  that  passed  between  two 
ladies  who  had  come  to  a  ball  rather  as  spectators  than  partici- 
pants in  the  exhilarating  pleasures  of  the  evening. — What  busi- 
ness they  had  in  such  a  place,  it  is  not  our  business  to  know. 
We  only  mention  the  fact.  The  maiden  who  had  called  forth 
the  above  remarks,  was  named  Anna  Freeland.  She  was  young, 


108  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

beautiful,  and  full  of  life.  In  company  you  would  find  her  the 
gayest  of  the  gay;  herself  the  wildest  spirit  of  all.  On  the  oc- 
casion at  present  referred  to,  Anna  entered  into  the  exciting 
pleasures  of  the  evening  with  her  usual  heartiness.  She  had 
come  for  enjoyment,  and  she  did  not  mean  to  be  disappointed. 

Mrs.  Marrast,  one  of  the  ladies  we  have  introduced,  could 
not,  from  some  cause  or  other,,  keep  either  her  eyes  or  her 
thoughs  away  from  Anna.  To  her,  the  light-hearted  young  girl 
was  a  living  embodiment  of  frivolity.  A  very  butterfly,  as  she 
had  called  her,  fluttering  in  the  sunshine  of  fashion. 

"Poor  child  !"  she  said  to  the  friend  who  sat  by  her  side  ; 
"  this  cannot  last  forever.  Life  is  not  all  a  fairy  scene." 

"  What  can  her  friends  be  thinking  about  ?"  remarked  the 
other.  "  Do  they  not  know  that  sober  duties  come  to  all  ?  That, 
taken  in  any  way,  it  is  a  serious  thing  to  live  ?" 

"  They  ought  to  know  all  this.  But,  I  am  told  that  her 
father  worships  her,  and  will  not  permit  her  to  do  any  thing 
useful." 

"  Can  he  consent  to  her  running  this  round  of  folly  ?  Can  he 
really  be  a  party  to  her  destruction,  both  soul  and  body  ?  I  speak 
plainly." 

"  Not  more  plainly  than  truth  warrants,"  said  Mrs.  Marrast. 
"  Ah,  me !  Mothers  and  fathers  of  the  present  generation  will 
have  much  to  answer  for." 

Just  then  Anna  Freeland,  who  had  finished  dancing,  came 
lightly  tripping  across  the  room,  and  took  a  seat  beside  Mrs. 
Marrast,  saying,  as  she  did  so,  in  a  light,  playful  way — 

"  Why,  how  grave  you  are  !  Has  no  one  asked  you  to  dance 
to-night  ?  I  must  find  you  a  partner." 

"  I  don't  dance,"  replied  Mrs.  Marrast.  This  was  said  with 
a  smile.  It  would  hardly  have  been  good  manners  to  have  look- 
ed serious. 

"  You  don't  mean  that  your  dancing  days  are  over,"  laughed 
Anna. 

"  Yes.     I  think  they're  over  with  me." 

"  Oh,  dear !     I  mean  to  dance  when  I'm  sixty." 

"  Sixty !  You  don't  expect  to  live  to  that  age  ?"  And  Mrs. 
Marrast  glanced  at  the  slender  form  of  the  young  girl,  which 
looked  as  if  a  summer  breeze  would  blow  it  away. 

"  Indeed,  then,  I  do  !     Why  not  ?" 

"  And  you  expect  to  enjoy  yourself  for  the  whole  time  ?" 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL  ROOM.  109 

"  Oh,  certainly  !  I  always  have  enjoyed  myself,  and  always 
expect  to  do  so." 

The  ladies  shook  their  heads. 

"  People  don't  enjoy  themselves  in  this  world  half  so  much 
as  they  would  if  they  only  took  the  pleasure  that  is  offered,"  said 
Anna.  "  I'm  sure  you'd  be  as  happy  again,  to-night,  as  you 
are,  if,  like  me,  you  accepted  all  that  the  occasion  offered,  and 
danced  and  laughed  with  the  merriest." 

"  You're  a  wild,  thoughtless  girl,  Anna,"  replied  Mrs.  Marrast, 
half  smiling,  half-serious. 

"  Oh,  no,"  returned  Anna.  "  Not  thoughtless,  by  any  means : 
though  I  own  to  being  a  little  wild.  I'm  a  philosopher." 

"  Though  of  the  Epicurian  school,  I  would  say." 

"  Just  as  please.  '  Live  while  you  live,'  is  my  motto,  and  I 
mean  to  hold  to  it  through  life." 

Before  either  of  the  ladies  could  reply,  Anna  had  accepted  an 
invitation  to  dance  in  another  cotillion,  and  in  a  little  while  was 
moving  gracefully  in  the  mazy  circles  that  were  wreathing  their 
many  forms  to  the  sound  of  inspiring  music. 

"  Gay,  thoughtless  creature  !"  sighed  Mrs.  Marrast,  as  the 
light  form  of  the  beautiful  girl  moved  before  her. 

"  And  you  might  add,  heartless,"  murmured  the  companion, 
in  a  tone  of  severity.  "  What  does  she  care  for  the  wants  and 
sufferings  of  others  ?  She  would  dance  through  the  world  in 
search  of  pleasure,  and  let  bleeding  humanity  die  at  the  way 
side,  unthought  of  and  uncared  for." 

"  Without  human  sympathies,"  returned  Mrs.  Marrast,  •"  I  see 
nothing  attractive  or  lovely  in  youth,  wit  or  beauty.  And  here 
lies  my  whole  objection  to  fashionable  society.  It  is  all  selfish- 
ness. To  gain  an  hour  of  pleasure,  a  girl  like  Anna  would  dis- 
regard every  consideration  that  involved  merely  the  comfort  or 
happiness  of  another.  A  sick  sister,  a  grief- stricken  friend,  or 
a  lonely  mother,  would  never  keep  her  back  from  the  ball  room 
or  opera." 

"  No,  I  presume  not.  Pleasure  claims  the  entire  devotion  of 
her  worshippers.  She  accepts  no  divided  service." 

"  And  if  ever  she  had  a  faithful  worshipper,  that  one  is  Anna 
Freeland." 

"  A  truer  word  I  have  not  heard  spoken.     But  pleasure's  day 
is  a  brief,  though  bright  one ;  and  Anna  will,  ere  long,  find  her- 
self encompassed  by  darkness  and  storms." 
10 


110  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

This  was  said  with  an  expression,  which,  to  the  ears  of  a  lis- 
tener would  have  sounded  very  much  as  if  the  prophecy  of  evil 
sprung  from  a  secret  wish  to  see  clouds  and  darkness  gather 
around  the  form  of  the  happy  girl. 

An  hour  afterwards,  and  while  the  company  were  passing  to- 
wards the  refreshment  rooms,  Mrs.  Marrast  heard  some  one  near, 
her,  ask — 

"  Where  is  that  lovely  young  creature  who  moved  about  so 
like  a  fairy  ?" 

"  Anna  Freeland,  you  mean  ?" 

"  Yes.     I've  missed  her  during  the  last  twenty  minutes." 

"  So  have  I.     Can  she  have  left  ?" 

"  She  may  have  been  taken  ill." 

"  Oh,  no !  She  looked  too  beautiful  and  happy  ever  to  be  sick. 
I  will  not  believe  that." 

Mrs.  Marrast  heard  no  more.  She  searched  every  where  with 
her  eyes,  both  while  at  the  supper  table  and  after  returning  to 
the  drawing  rooms,  to  find  Anna,  but  nothing  more  was  seen 
of  the  lovely  girl,  who,  while  present,  had  indeed  been  the  Belle 
of  the  Ball  room. 

About  the  time  when  the  gay  company  were  gathering  around 
the  supper  tables,  which  were  loaded  with  every  luxury,  the  fa- 
mily carriage  of  Mr.  Freeland  drove  up  to  that  gentleman's  door, 
and  as  the  driver  threw  down  the  steps  Anna  tripped  lightly 
out.  On  being  admitted,  she  said  to  the  waiter,  in  an  earnest 
voice — 

"  How  is  little  Eddy  ?" 

"  He  isn't  any  worse,"  replied  the  servant. 

Anna  sprung  along  the  hall  and  up  the  stairs,  almost  as  noise- 
lessly as  a  spirit.  At  one  of  the  chambers  she  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  opening  the  door,  glided  in.  A  dim  light  burned 
in  the  room,  and  near  a  crib,  in  which  lay  a  sleeping  child,  sat 
the  young  girl's  father  and  mother. 

"  Why,  Anna,  dear  !  What  has  brought  you  home  so  early  ?" 
said  the  latter,  speaking  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"  How's  Eddy  ?"  enquired  Anna,  without  answering  her  mo- 
ther's question. 

"He's  slept  all  the  evening.  We  hope  he  is  better.  B'jtt 
how  came  you  to  return  so  early  ?" 

"  I  told  Thomas  to  be  sure  and  come  for  me  at  eleven  o'clock. 
And  now,  mother,  you  must  go  to  bed.  You  were  up  nearly  all 

'  '-St.  night.     I  will  watch  with  Eddy." 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL  ROOM.  Ill 

"I  don't  feel  in  the  least  sleepy,  dear  !"  returned  Mrs.  Free- 
land,  in  an  affectionate  tone.  "  I'm  sorry  you  deprived  your- 
self of  the  pleasure  you  anticipated." 

*'  It  will  give  me  greater  pleasure  to  sit  by  the  side  of  dear 
little  Eddy,  and  know  that  you  are  getting  the  rest  you  need, 
than  I  would  have  received  had  I  .remained  where  I  was.  So 
now,  mother,  you  must  go  to  bed  ;  and  if  you  are  not  sleepy, 
you  soon  will  be.  I  am  going  up  stairs  to  change  my  dress,  and 
will  be  down  in  a  moment  or  two." 

"  Dear  child  !"  said  Mr.  Freeland,  the  moment  Anna  left 
the  room.  "  How  little  of  selfishness  finds  a  place  in  her 
heart  !" 

"  Little  —  very  little.  But,  we  must  not  leave  her  to  sit  up 
alone  with  Eddy." 

"  You  were  up  last  night,  and  need  rest  ;  and  I  do  not  feel 
well  enough  to  lose  my  sleep.  Can't  nurse  remain  with  her?" 

"  Nurse  is  herself  sick.  She  has  taken  a  violent  cold,  and 
complains  of  head-ache  and  a  pain  and  tightness  in  her  breast. 
I  sent  her  to  bed  an  hour  ago." 


While  they  were  yet  talking,  Anna  came  softly  in  again.   She 

ged  h 
"  I  can't  think  of  your  sitting  up  alone,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Free- 


had  changed  her  ball  dress  for  a  muslin  wrapper. 


land,  tenderly. 

"  I  shall  not  be  alone.  You  and  pa  sleep  in  the  next  cham- 
ber, and  Eddy  will  be  with  me  here.  Oh,  I  shall  not  feel  at  all 
lonesome  !" 

It  was  no  use  arguing  with  her.  She  was  so  much  in  earnest, 
that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Freeland  saw  that  opposition  would  be  una- 
vailing. So  they  consented  to  retire  and  leave  the  sick  child  in 
her  care. 

Wakeful  and  patient  from  that  time  until  the  morning  rays 
came  stealing  in  at  the  window,  did  Anna,  who  a  few  hours  be- 
fore was  the  light-hearted  belle  of  the  ball  room,  sit  by  the  side 
of  her  little  sick  brother,  or  hold  him  tenderly  against  her  bo- 
som when  he  grew  restless  and  tossed  himself  about  from  fever 
and  pain. 

As  Mrs.  Marrast,  the  lady  who  saw,  in  Anna,  only  a  living 
image  of  folly,  was  descending,  after  supper,  to  the  ball  room, 
her  husband,  who  had  been  called  down  a  short  time  before, 
met  her,  and  said  — 

"  They  have  sent  for  us  to  come  home.     Henry  is  worse." 


112  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  Worse  !     Who  says  so  ?" 

Thomas  is  at  the  door.  He  says  the  nurse  is  very  much  fright- 
ened, and  wants  us  to  come  home." 

"  I  don't  believe  in  his  being  any  worse,"  said  the  lady  petu- 
lantly. "  I'm  sure  he  was  a  great  deal  better  when  we  left 
home.  But  it's  just  like  nurse.  She's  always  frightened  at 


"  We'd  better  go  home,"  said  Mr.  Marrast  in  a  serious  voice. 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course.  If  it's  only  for  appearance  sake.  It 
will  be  known  that  we  were  sent  for." 

And  with  a  very  bad  grace  the  lady  withdrew  to  the  dressing 
room. 

On  reaching  home,  it  was  found  that  the  child  was  really  worse ; 
so  much  so,  as  to  fully  justify,  at  least  in  Mr.  Marrast's  opinion, 
the  nurse  in  sending  for  them.  But  Mrs.  Marrast  had  permitted 
herself  to  get  excited  in  her  disappointment  at  being  summon- 
ed to  return  earlier  than  she  wished,  and  excitement  always 
obscures  the  senses.  She  could  not  see  that  Henry  was  so 
very  ill. 

Twenty  minutes  after  her  return,  the  mother  had  reason  to 
change  her  opinion,  for  the  little  sick  boy,  who  was  moaning 
when  she  came  in,  and  moving  his  head  on  his  pillow  from 
one  side  to  the  other  in  a  way  that  the  nurse  said  was  strange, 
suddenly  went  off  into  violent  spasms,  which  continued  for  two 
hours,  when  they  subsided,  and  the  sufferer  fell  off  into  a  quiet 
sleep. 

For  three  nights  the  nurse  had  been  up  with  the  little  inva- 
lid nearly  the  whole  of  each  night,  and  she  was  now  worn  out 
and  almost  sick.  Yet,  when  the  spasms  at  last  subsided  and  the 
child  slept,  Mrs.  Marrast  did  not  tell  her  to  go  to  bed  and  get  a 
little  rest.  That  luxury  the  mother  wished  to  enjoy  herself;  and, 
after  telling  the  nurse  to  call  her  if  there  was  any  alarming 
change,  she  sought  her  pillowy  and  was  soon  locked  in  pro- 
found slumber.  Over-wearied,  the  nurse  leaned  her  head  back 
in  her  chair,  and  ere  long  was  also  in  the  world  of  dreams.  For- 
tunately, there  was  no  change  in  the  sick  child.  He  slept  also, 
until  daylight  aroused  the  startled  watcher. 

It  was,  perhaps,  a  month  after  this  occurrence,  that  a  pale 
young  girl,  with  a  slender,  delicate  form,  that  was  slightly  bent, 
came  into  the  room  where  Mrs.  Marrast  sat  reading.  She  had 
a  bundle  in  her  hand. 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  RALL  ROOM.  113 

"  Ah,  Fanny,"  said  the  lady,  "  I  expected  you  last  week." 

"  I  hoped  to  get  your  work  done  several  days  ago,"  replied 
the  girl,  in  a  slow,  feeble  voice.  "  But  the  pain  in  my  side  has 
oeen  so  bad,  that  I  couldn't  sit  half  my  time ;  and  now  I'm 
obliged  to  bring  in  two  of  the  shirts  unmade." 

"  Not  made  !"     Mrs.  Marrast's  voice  expressed  surprise. 

"  No,  ma'am  ;  and  I'm  sorry  for  it.  If  I  could  have  finished 
them  in  any  good  time,  I  would  have  kept  them.  But,  I'm  so 
poorly  that  the  doctor  says  I  must  stop  work  for  awhile,  or  his 
medicine  will  do  me  no  good." 

"  Stop  work  ?"  said  Mrs.  Marrast.  "  Why,  what  will  you 
do?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  ma'am."  Fanny's  voice  was  husky 
as  she  made  this  reply. 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry  you  didn't  get  them  shirts  all  done.  Mr. 
Marrast  wants  them  badly,"  said  the  lady,  without  evincing  the 
slightest  sympathy  for  the  girl,  or  even  asking  her  to  sit  down, 
although  she  leaned  heavily,  from  weakness,  with  her  hand 
upon  the  sofa,  on  which  Mrs.  Marrast  was  sitting.  "  I  think, 
if  you  were  to  make  an  effort,  you  could  finish  them  for  me." 

But  the  sick  girl  shook  her  head  languidly. 

"  You  know  best,"  remarked  Mrs.  Marrast,  coldly.  Rising, 
she  added,  "  How  much  do  I  owe  you  ?" 

"  Three  dollars,  ma'am." 

"  For  what  ?" 

"  For  the  three  shirts  I  have  made." 

tl  A  dollar  apiece  !  Is  that  what  you  charge  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am ;  I  always  receive  that." 

"  It's  higher  than  I  generally  pay.  Eighty-seven  and  a 
half  cents  I  think  enough,  and,  in  fact,  too  much  for  a  shirt." 

Mrs.  Marrast  looked  sternly  at  the  shrinking  girl,  who,  feeling 
in  her  friendless  condition  that  good-will  was  even  more  to  her 
than  money,  poor  as  she  was,  said — 

"  If  you  think  so,  ma'am,  I  will  be  satisfied." 

"  Well,  I  do  think  so." 

Fanny  said  no  more.  Mrs.  Marrast  paid  her  two  dollars  and 
five  eights,  instead  of  three  dollars,  and  she  took  the  money  with- 
out a  wor  1  and  turned  away. 

When  the  poor  sewing  girl  left  the  house  of  Mrs.  Marrast, 
she  still  had  in  her  possession  a  small  bundle  of  work.  With 
this  she  called  at  Mrs.  Freeland's.  Anna  was  sitting  by  her 
10* 


114  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

mother  when  Fanny  ctme  in ;  and  the  first  thing  she  noticed 
was  her  pale  face  and  feeble  step.  With  instinctive  kindness 
she  arose  and  handed  her  a  chair,  saying,  as  she  did  so — 

"  Take  a  seat  Fanny.  Why,  how  poorly  you  look !  Have  you 
been  sick  ?" 

"  I  hav'nt  been  well  for  some  time,"  replied  Fanny,  forcing  a 
smile. 

"  Indeed !  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,"  said  Mrs.  Freeland  ;  "  I 
was  afraid  you  were  not  so  well  as  usual ;  for,  when  you  were 
here  last  you  seemed  hardly  able  to  be  about.  What  has  been 
the  matter  with  you  ?" 

"  I  have  such  a  pain  in  my  side  that  I  cannot  sit  and  sew 
without  becoming  faint ;  and  I  seem  to  be  growing  weaker  ev- 
ery day.  I  hope  you  won't  feel  hurt  at  me,  Mrs.  Freeland,  but 
I've  not  been  able  to  get  your  work  done.  I  didn't  think  it  right 
to  keep  it  any  longer,  and  so  I  have  brought  it  home.  If  I  felt 
that  I  could  do  it  in  any  reasonable  time,  I  would  not  give  it  up  ; 
but  the  doctor  says,  that  if  I  don't  quit  work,  it  will  be  no  use 
for  him  to  give  me  medicine.," 

"  What  does  he  say  is  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

"  He  doesn't  say,  ma'am  ;  but  he  scolds  whenever  he  sees 
me  at  work,  and  tells  me  I  will  kill  myself." 

"  It  would  be  of  service  to  you  if  you  were  to  go  to  the  country 
for  a  few  months,"'  remarked  "Mrs.  Freeland. 

"  So  the  doctor  says." 

"  Are  you  going?" 

The  poor  girl  smiled  faintly,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Why  not,  Fanny  ?  It  the  doctor  believes  it  will  do  you  good, 
you  ought  to  go." 

Fanny  only  replied  by  another  faint  smile.  A  few  more  ques- 
tions were  asked  and  answered,  and  then  the  girl  retired,  with  a 
slow  step,  and  her  form  slightly  bent. 

As  soon  as  she  was  gone,  Anna,  who  had  scarcely  taken  her 
eyes  from  her  face  a  moment  while  she  remained,  said,  with  a 
long-drawn  sigh — 

"  Poor  girl!  I  wonder  if  she  have  friends  in  the  city?" 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  replied  her  mother.  "  I  believe  she  has  not 
a  single  relative  here."  , 

"  What  is  she  going  to  do  ?" 

'  "  That  is  more  than  I  can  tell.  She  ought  to  go  into  the 
countr)  and  spend  the  summer.  This  would  do  her  more 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL  ROOM.  115 

good  than  medicine.  But  I  suppose  she  has  no  means  of 
going." 

"  If  she  can't  work,  how  is  she  to  live,  even  in  the  city  ?" 

"  Dear  knows !" 

Mrs.  Freeland  was  called  out  at  the  moment,  and  Anna  went 
up  to  her  room  with  the  drooping  form  of  the  young  sewing  girl 
so  distinctly  before  her  mind,  that  she  could  neither  see  nor  think 
of  any  thing  else.  All  the  sympathies  of  her  kind  heart  were 
awakened,  and  her  thoughts  were  busy  in  seeking  for  a  plan  of 
relief. 

'*  I  can't  think  of  any  thing  but  poor  Fanny,"  said  she  to  her 
mother  when  they  again  met.  "  What  is  she  going  to  do  ? 
Wouldn't  it  be  dreadful  if  they  were  to  send  her  to  the  Alms 
House  ?"• 

Mrs,  Freeland  sighed.  She,  too,  had  been  unable  to  shut  out 
from  her  mind  the  image  of  Fanny,  whose  meek,  pale,  sad  face 
was  making  to  her  heart  a  silent  but  strong  appeal. 

"  I've  been  thinking,"  said  Anna,  "  that  she  would  be  just 
the  one  to  travel  with  Mrs.  Ellis  this  summer.  You  know  she 
always  takes  some  one  with  her  as  a  kind  of  waiting  maid  and 
companion." 

"  With  Mrs.  Ellis  ?  Let  me  see !"  And  Mrs.  Freeland  looked 
thoughtful  for  some  moments.  "  Yes,  I  think  that  might  do. 
Fanny  is  very  neat  in  her  person ;  is  a  girl  of  good  principles, 
good  manners,  and  has  some  education. — Yes,  yes — I  think  that 
will  do,  provided  she  is  strong  enough  to  bear  the  fatigue  of  tra- 
vel. All  she  will  have  to  do  cannot  hurt  her." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  -it  would  be  just  the  thing,"  said  Anna, 
with  earnestness  and  enthusiasm.  "  The  travel  and  change 
of  air  will  be  more  than  medicine  to  her ;  and  you  know  that  Mrs. 
Ellis,  who  is  a  perfect  lady,  will  be  so  kind  and  considerate." 

"  No  doubt  of  that.  Still  we  must  not  be  too  sanguine.  Mrs. 
Ellis  may  already  have  some  one  engaged." 

Anna's  countenance  fell  as  she  replied — 

"  True,  true  enough.  But,"  and  she  arose  as  she  spoke,  "  I 
will  soon  know  all  about  that." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?" 

"  To  see  Mrs.  Ellis,  and  talk  to  her  myself.  I  shall  not  be 
able  to  rest  until  something  is  done  for  Fanny.  It  would  be  in- 
human to  let  her  waste  away  and  die,  when  a  little  effort  might 
save  her." 


116  SKETCHES   OF   lIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

"You  say  truly,  my  daughter.     Providence  has  placed  her 
in  our  way,  and  it  is  our  duty  to  care  for  her.     You  can  mention 
me  to  Mrs.  Ellis,  and  say  that  I  fully  approve  of  the  step  you  ^ 
have  taken." 

When  Fanny  left  the  house  of  Mrs.  Freeland,  it  was  with  a 
drooping  heart.  In  giving  up  her  unfinished  work,  she  had  sev- 
ered her  last  known  claim  upon  the  world  for  an  independent 
support.  This  act  had  been  one  of  deep  necessity.  Three 
times  during  the  preceding  week  had  she  sunk,  fainting,  from 
her  chair,  overcome  with  pain  and  exhaustion ;  and  many 
hours  of  utter  physical  prostration  had  followed  these  attacks. 
When  this  became  known  to  the  doctor,  who  had  been  giving 
her  medicine,  occasionally,  he  so  positively  forbade  her  continu- 
ing her  murderous  employment,  that  she  felt  as  if  it  would  be 
w?ong  in  the  sight  of  Heaven  any  longer  to  go  on  in  the  old  way- 
What  she  was  to  do,  she  knew  not,  for  she  had  no  friends  to 
provide  for  her  in  sickness.  But,  with  a  resigned  and  trust- 
ing spirit,  she  proceeded  to  give  up  her  work.  And  though 
her  heart  trembled  and  sunk  in  her  bosom  while  she  was  doing 
what  she  believed  to  be  right,  yet  a  feeling  of  confidence  in  Him 
•who  is  a  father  to  the  fatherless  sustained  her. 

On  returning  home,  Fanny  went  to  her  little  chamber,  and 
after  closing  and  locking  the  door,  sunk  sobbing,  on  her  knees 
beside  her  bed,  and  buried  her  face  in  a  pillow.  She  re- 
mained thus  for  many  minutes.  When  she  arose,  her  coun- 
tenance wore  a  calm  expression  and  there  was  a  light  in  her 
eyes. 

It  was  not  with  a  view  of  abandoning  all  efforts  to  sustain 
herself  by  her  own  labor  that  Fanny  took  the  step  just  mention- 
ed. Satisfied  that  it  was  wrong  to  go  on  in  the  way  she  had 
been  going,  she  paused  and  stood  still  to  see  if  Providence  would 
open  a  new  path  for  her  feet.  Doubting  and  trembling  she  thus 
stood — yet  in  her  doubt  and  fear  there  was  something  confiding 
and  hopeful.  After  remaining  in  her  chamber  for  half  an  hour, 
thinking  earnestly  all  the  while,  she  went  to  the  room  where  the 
woman  with  whom  she  boarded  sat  sewing.  She  held  in  her 
hand  the  money  she  had  received  from  Mrs.  Marrast.  It  was  her 
little  all. 

"  Here  are  two  dollars  and  sixty-two  cents,  Mrs.  Green," 
said  she,  holding  out  the  money.  Mrs.  Marrast  wouldn't 
pay  me  but  eighty-seven  cents  for  making  the  shirts ;  or  else 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL  ROOM.  117 

1  would  have  given  you  *  the  three  dollars  that  are  due  to- 
day." 

"  Is  it  possible  that  woman  cheated  you  out  of  a  shilling  on 
each  shirt  ?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Green,  sharply. 

"  She  said  she  never  paid  a  dollar  for  shirts." 

"  Though  she'd  pay  twice  as  much  for  satin  slippers,  and  not 
think  the  money  wasted.  If  these  people  can  grind  a  cent  out 
of  the  poor,  they  think  it  so  much  gained.  But  their  day  of 
reckoning  will  come,  thank  heaven  !'* 

With  this  bitter  spirit  Fanny  did  not  sympathize.  After  wait- 
ing a  few  moments,  until  Mrs.  Green's  excitement  could  a  little 
subside,  she  said — 

"  The  doctor  told  me,  yesterday,  that  if  I  didn't  give  up  sew- 
ing, I  would  not  live  six  months.  He  positively  forbids  my  ma- 
king another  garment." 

"  It  is  easy  enough  for  the  doctor  to  do  all  that,"  replied 
Mrs.  Green,  coldly.  "  But,  how  are  you  going  to  live  without 
work  ?" 

"  I  don't  expect  to  do  that." 

"  How  do  you  think  of  earning  a  living  ?" 

When  Fanny  came  down  stairs,  there  was  a  feeling  of  con- 
fidence in  her  heart.  But  this  now  subsided. 

"  I  thought,"  said  she,  hesitating,  "  that,  perhaps,  as  you 
had  no  help,  you  would  give  me  my  board  for  what  I  could 
do  about  the  house  for  the  next  six  months,  until  I  picked  up  a 
little." 

"  Bless  you,  child  !"  returned  Mrs.  Green,  looking  at  Fanny 
with  unfeigned  surprise,  "  I  don't  want  any  help  in  the  house !" 

Fanny  choked  up,  and  stammered — 

"  Well — I  only  thought — may  be — that  you  might  want  some 
help." 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed.     I  can't  afford  to  have  help." 

Mrs.  Green  bent  over  her  work,  and  her  hand  moved  faster. 
A  silence  followed  that  was  oppressive  to  both.  Without  saying 
a  word  more,  Fanny  withdrew  and  went  up  again  to  her  own 
room.  As  she  closed  the  door  behind  her,  the  tears  came  steal- 
ing over  her  cheeks.  Quietly  she  sat  down,  but  without  making 
any  effort  to  compose  herself;  and  so  her  tears  flowed  on  for 
some  time,  unrestrained.  Then  she  grew  calm  again,  and  tried 
to  look  up  with  confidence. 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  go  and  get  back  the  work,"  she 


118  SKETCHES   OF  LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

murmured,  at  length.     I  don't  see  any  thing  else  that  I  can 
do." 

But  the  thought  of  needle  work  made  her  conscious  of  a  dull 
pain  in  her  side,  that  she  knew  would  grow  too  severe  to  be 
borne,  if  she  went  back  to  the  old  employment.  And  so,  sigh- 
ing, she  turned  her  thoughts  away. 

While  the  poor  girl  yet  remained  sad  and  irresolute,  there 
came  a  light  tap  at  the  door.  On  opening  it,  she  was  surprised 
to  find  that  the  visiter  was  Miss  Freeland. 

Her  pale  cheek  flushed,  and  she  experienced  a  momentary 
embarrassment ;  but  Anna  spoke  so  kindly  and  stepped  in  with 
such  a  familiar  air,  that  she  regained  at  once  her  self-possession. 

"  Fanny,"  said  the  visiter,  as  soon  as  she  was  seated,  "  how 
would  you  like  to  travel  with  Mrs.  Ellis  for  two  or  three 
months  ?" 

"  Oh !  I  should  like  it  very  much,"  replied  Fanny.  «  But, 
I'm  afraid  I  am  not  strong  enough  to  do  for  her  all  that  she 
might  require." 

"  She  wants  some  one  to  be  with  her  more  than  for  any  thing 
else.  All  you  would  have  to  do,  would  be  to  take  charge  of  her 
clothes  and  assist  in  dressing  her.  You  will  be  strong  enough 
for  that,  I  am  sure.  Besides,  change  of  air  and  exercise  will 
increase  your  strength." 

"  If  I  will  suit  her,  I  will  accept  the  place  thankfully." 
1    "  I  know  you  will.     I  have  been  to  see  her  since  you  were  at 
our  house,  and  she  says  if  you  like  to  go  with  her,  she  will  pay 
you  ten  dollars  a  month." 

Fanny's  lips  trembled,  as  she  replied — "  You  are  very  good, 
Miss  Freeland.  Nothing  could  have  suited  me  better.  Oh!  but 
for  this,  I  know  not  what  I  should  have  done !" 

And  in  the  fervor  of  the  moment,  she  took  Anna's  hand  and 
kissed  it. 

How  sweet  is  the  reward  of  kindness  and  benevolence  ! — An- 
na had  never  felt  happier  in  her  life.  On  the  evening  that  fol- 
lowed that  day,  she  attended  a  fashionable  party,  and  was  the 
gayest-hearted  maiden  in  the  assemblage.  Mrs.  Marrast  was 
there,  also ;  and,  as  before,  wondered  at  the  thoughtlessness  and 
frivolity  of  the  young  girl,  and  kept  back  all  true  enjoyment 
from  her  own  heart  by  indulging  in  censoriousness  towards  oth- 
ers. How  little  did  she  know  of  the  pure  spring  from  which 
flowed  the  happy  spirits  of  the  joyous  girl ! 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL  ROOM.         '  119 

Six  months  afterwards  she  met  Fanny. 

"  Fanny  !  Is  it  possible"  she  exclaimed.  "  How  well  you 
look !  Really,  I  thought  you  were  in  your  grave  months  ago." 

"  And  so  I  should  have  been  but  for  Miss  Freeland." 

"  For  Miss  Freeland  !     Anna  Freeland  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Why,  what  did  she  do  ?" 

Fanny  related  all  the  disinterested,  voluntary  kindness  of 
Anna  in  procuring  her  a  place  with  Mrs.  Ellis,  where  she  had 
ever  since  been,  and  said  much  in  favor  of  her  goodness  of 
heart. 

"  I  would  not  have  believed  it,"  returned  Mrs.  Marrast,  as 
she  turned  away,  adding  as  she  did  so : — "  Good  morning, 
Fanny." 

Mrs.  Marrast  found  herself  puzzled.  She  could  not  under- 
stand the  meaning  of  what  she  had  just  heard.  Like  thousands 
of  others,  she  had  been  so  foolish  as  to  imagine,  that,  because 
a  young  lady  entered  heartily  into  the  pleasures  of  a  gay  assem- 
blage, she  could  not,  therefore,  have  any  heart — could  not  possess 
human  sympathies,  nor  love  to  do  any  thing  that  was  useful  and 
benevolent.  As  she  erred,  the  thousands  who  are  like  her,  err. 
The  Belle  of  the  Ball  Room  is  not  always  a  mere  butterfly  in 
the  sun  of  fashion.  The  homes  and  social  sphere  of  hundreds 
of  our  beautiful  and  accomplished  young  ladies  will  fully  attest 
this ;  and  the  homes  and  social  sphere  of  hundreds  like  Mrs. 
Marrast,  will  show,  that  the  carping  and  censorious,  are  usually 
those  who  have  least  of  the  milk  of  human  kindness  in  their 
bosoms. 


THE  DAGUERREOTYPIST. 


If  our  children  and  children's  children  to  the  third  and  fourth 
generations  are  not  in  possession  of  portraits  of  their  ancestors,  it 
will  be  no  fault  of  the  Daguerreotypists  of  the  present  day  ;  for, 
verily,  they  are  limning  faces  at  a  rate  that  promises  soon  to 
make  every  man's  house  a  Daguerrean  Gallery.  From  little 
Bess,  the  baby,  up  to  great-grandpa',  all  must  now  have  their 
likenesses ;  and  even  the  sober  Friend,  who  heretofore  rejected 
all  the  vanities  of  portrait-taking,  is  tempted  to  sit  in  the  opera- 
tor's chair,  and  quick  as  thought,  his  features  are  caught  and 
fixed  by  a  sunbeam.  In  our  great  cities,  a  Daguerreotypist  is  to 
be  found  in  almost  every  square ;  and  there  is  scarcely  a  county 
in  any  state  that  has  not  one  or  more  of  these  industrious  indi- 
viduals busy  at  work  in  catching  "  the  shadow"  ere  the  "  sub- 
stance fade."  A  few  years  ago  it  was  not  every  man  who 
could  afford  a  likeness  of  himself,  his  wife  or  his  children  ;  these 
were  luxuries  known  to  those  only  who  had  money  to  spare ; 
now  it  is  hard  to  find  the  man  who  has  not  gone  through  the 
"  operator's"  hands  from  one  to  half-a-dozen  times,  or  who  has 
not  the  shadowy  faces  of  his  wife  and  children  done  up  in  pur- 
ple morocco  and  velvet,  together  or  singly,  among  his  household 
treasures.  Truly,  the  sunbeam  art  is  a  most  wonderful  one,  and 
the  public  feel  it  is  a  great  benefit ! 

If  a  painter's  studio  is  a  place  in  which  to  get  glimpses  of 
human  nature,  how  much  more  so  the  Daguerreotypist's  opera- 
ting-room, where  dozens  come  daily,  and  are  finished  off  in  a 
sitting  of  half  a  minute.  Scenes  ludicrous,  amusing  or  pathetic, 
are  constantly  occurring.  People  come  for  their  portraits  who 
have  never  seen  the  operation,  and  who  have  not  the  most  dis- 
tant conception  of  how  the  thing  is  done.  Some,  in  taking  their 
places  in  the  chair,  get  so  nervous  that  they  tremble  like  aspens ; 

120 


THE    DAGUERREOTYPIST.  121 

and  others,  in  the  vain  attempt  to  keep  their  features  composed, 
distort  them  so  much  that  they  are  frightened  at  their  own  image 
when  it  is  placed  in  their  hands. 

Some  months  ago,  a  well-conditioned  farmer  from  the  interior 
of  the  state,  arrived  in  Philadelphia,  and  after  selling  his  pro- 
duce and  making  sundry  purchases,  recollected  that  he  had  pro- 
mised, on  leaving  home,  that  he  would  bring  back  his  Daguerreo- 
type. It  was  all  a  piece  of  nonsense,  he  had  argued ;  but  his 
argument  was  of  no  avail,  for  wife  and  daughters  said  that  he 
must  do  as  they  wished,  and  so  he  had  yielded  an  easy  compli- 
ance. On  inquiry,  he  was  told  that  Root  was  the  man  for  him  ; 
so  one  bright  morning  he  took  his  way  down  Chestnut  street  to 
the  gallery  of  the  far-famed  Daguerreotypist.  Mr.  Root  was  at 
home,  of  course,  and  ready  to  accommodate  the  farmer,  who, 
after  looking  at  sundry  portraits,  asking  prices  and  making  his 
own  remarks  on  all  he  saw,  was  invited  to  walk  up  into  the 
operating-room. 

"  Where  ?"  inquired  the  farmer,  looking  curious. 

"  Into  the  operating-room,"  replied  Mr.  Root,  as  he  moved 
towards  the  door. 

The  farmer  was  not  yet  sure  that  he  had  heard  correctly,  but 
he  did  not  like  to  ask  again,  so  he  followed  on ;  but  it  sounded 
in  his  ears  very  much  as  if  Mr.  Root  had  said  "  operating"- 
room,  and  the  only  idea  he  had  of  "  operations"  was  the  cutting 
off  of  legs  and  arms.  However,  up  stairs  he  went,  with  his  dog 
close  behind  him,  and  was  soon  introduced  into  a  room  in  the 
third  story. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Root — smiling,  as  the  farmer  thought, 
a  little  strangely — "  we  will  see  what  we  can  do  for  you.  Take 
a  seat  in  that  chair." 

The  farmer  sat  down,  feeling  a  little  uneasy,  for  he  did  not 
much  like  the  appearance  of  things.  Besides  Mr.  Root,  there 
was  another  man  in  the  room,  and  he  felt  that  if  any  unfair  play 
were  attempted,  they  would  prove  too  much  for  him.  This  idea, 
as  it  clearly  presented  itself,  seemed  so  ridiculous  that  he  tried 
to  thrust  it  away,  but  he  could  not.  There  was  a  mysterious 
ticking  in.  the  room,  for  which  he  could  not  account.  It  was 
like  the  sound  of  a  clock,  and  yet  not  like  it.  He  glanced  around, 
but  could  not  perceive  the  source  from  whence  it  came.  At  one 
moment  it  seemed  to  be  under  the  floor  near  his  feet,  then  in  the 
ceiling,  and  next  in  a  far  corner  of  the  room. 
11 


122  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

As  he  took  his  place  in  the  chair  that  had  been  pointed  out, 
Mr.  Root  drew  a  singular-looking  apparatus  into  the  middle  of 
the  floor,  and  directed  towards  him  the  muzzle  of  what  seemed 
a  small  brass  cannon.  At  the  same  time,  the  other  man  placed 
his  hand  upon  his  head  and  drew  it  back  into  an  iron  clamp,  the 
cold  touch  of  which  made  the  blood  in  his  veins  curdle  to  his 
very  heart. 

the  farmer  was  a  man  who  both  took  and  read  the  newspa- 
pers, and  through  these  he  had  become  acquainted  with  many 
cases  of  "  mysterious  disappearance."  Men  with  a  few  hundred 
dollars  in  their  pockets — such  was  then  his  own  case — had  been 
inveigled  among  robbers  and  murderers,  and  he  might  now  be 
in  one  of  their  dens  of  iniquity.  This  fear  once  excited,  every 
movement  of  the  two  men,  who  were  acting  in  concert,  but  con- 
firmed his  suspicions.  Their  mysterious  signs,  their  evident  pre- 
paration to  act  together  at  a  particular  moment,  all  helped  to 
excite  still  further  his  alarm.  It  was  more  than  human  nature 
— at  least  the  farmer's  human  nature — could  stand  ;  for,  spring- 
ing suddenly  from  the  chair,  he  caught  up  his  hat,  and,  esca- 
ping from  the  room,  dashed  down  stairs  as  if  a  legion  of  evil 
spirits  were  after  him,  to  the  no  small  amusement  of  the  two 
"  operators,"  who,  though  they  lost  a  customer,  had  a  good  joke 
to  laugh  over  for  a  month. 

The  different  impressions  made  upon  sitters  is  curious  enough. 
The  most  common  is  the  illusion  that  the  instrument  exercises  a 
kind  of  magnetic  attraction,  and  many  good  ladies  actually  feel 
their  eyes  "  drawn"  towards  the  lens  while  the  operation  is  in 
progress  !  Others  perceive  an  impression  as  if  a  draft  of  cold 
air  were  blowing  on  their  faces,  and  a  few  are  affected  with  a 
pricking  sensation,  while  the  perspiration  starts  from  every  pore. 
A  sense  of  suffocation  is  a  common  feeling  among  persons  of 
delicate  nerves  and  lively  fancies,  who  find  it  next  to  impossi- 
ble to  sit  still ;  and  on  leaving  the  chair  they  catch  their  breath 
and  pant  as  if  they  had  been  in  a  vacuum.  No  wonder  so  many 
Daguerreotypes  have  a  strange,  surprised  look,  or  an  air  as  if 
the  original  were  ill  at  ease  in  his  or  her  mind.  Of  course,  these 
various  impressions  are  all  the  result  of  an  excited  imagination 
and  an  effort  to  sit  perfectly  still  and  look  composed.  Forced 
ease  is  actual  constraint  and  must  appear  so.  In  Daguerreotype 
portraits  this  is  particularly  apparent. 

Among  Friends,  it  is  well  known  that  there  has  existed  a  pre- 


SITTING  FOR  A  DAGUERREOTYPE. 


THE    DAGUERREOTYPIST.  123 

judice  against  having  portraits  taken.  To  some  extent  this  is 
wearing  off,  and  very  many  prominent  members  of  this  Society 
have,  of  late  years,  consented  to  sit  for  their  likenesses,  and  in 
Daguerrean  Galleries  a  goodly  number  of  plain  coats  and  caps 
may  be  seen  among  the  specimens.  But  large  numbers  still 
hold  out,  and  will  not  be  tempted  to  enter  a  painter's  studio  or  a 
Daguerreotypist's  room.  Some,  firm  enough  in  their  resolution 
not  to  sit  themselves,  are  at  times  induced  to  go  with  friends  or 
children  who  intend  having  Daguerreotypes  taken,  and  are, 
through  a  little  stratagem,  brought  within  range  of  the  lens, 
when,  before  they  dream  of  danger,  their  faces  are  caught  and 
fixed  !  Not  long  ago,  a  young  lady,  whose  father  was  a  Friend, 
induced  him  to  go  with  her  to  Root's.  For  a  long  time,  while 
there,  she  urged  him  to  have  his  likeness  taken,  but  the  old  man 
was  as  immovable  as  a  rock.  No  inducement  she  could  offer 
had  the  least  effect.  When  her  turn  came  to  go  up  into  the 
operating-room,  the  old  gentleman  went  along.  The  iron  head- 
rest troubled  the  young  lady. 

"  Can't  you  take  me  without  this  machine  ?"  said  she. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  the  operator ;  "  but  you  will  not  be  able 
to  sit  perfectly  still,  and  the  least  movement  will  cause  the  pic- 
ture to  be  defective." 

There  was  a  bright  thought  in  the  little  lady's  head,  which 
was  the  real  cause  of  its  feeling  so  unpleasant  about  the  inno- 
cent rest.  She  leaned  it  back  once  more,  but  ere  the  camera 
could  be  opened,  she  was  in  motion  again,  and  said  that  it  was  no 
use,  she  couldn't  sit  in  that  way ;  it  made  her  feel  so  nervous. 

"  I  wish,  father,"  said  she,  "  you  would  stand  at  the  back  of 
my  chair,  and  let  me  lean  my  head  against  you  ;  I  can  sit  much 
better." 

"  Certainly,"  replied  the  old  gentleman,  doing  as  he  was  de- 
sired. 

"  Oh,  that  will  do  exactly !"  cried  the  daughter,  with  ill- 
concealed  delight,  giving  the  operator,  as  she  spoke,  a  look  so 
full  of  meaning  that  it  was  instantly  comprehended.  In  half  a 
minute  the  work  was  done,  and  the  old  man  and  his  daughter 
went  down  stairs  to  wait  in  the  gallery  until  the  finished  picture 
should  be  brought  to  them.  The  surprise  of  the  former  may 
well  be  imagined  when,  on  receiving  the  Daguerreotype,  he  saw, 
not  only  the  face  and  form  of  his  daughter,  but  the  likeness  of 
himself  standing  up  behind  her ! 


124  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

On  another  occasion  a  member  of  the  Society  of  Friends  ac- 
companied an  acquaintance  to  the  rooms  of  one  of  our  Da- 
guerreotypists,  where  they  were  politely  shown  the  operator's 
instrument,  and  had  the  whole  process  explained  to  them.  The 
Friend  was  one  of  those  who  had  steadily  refused  to  sit  for  a 
likeness,  and  this  the  Daguerreotypist  knew  very  well ;  so,  slip- 
ping a  prepared  plate  into  the  instrument,  he  asked  the  Quaker's 
friend  to  sit  down  in  a  chair,  look  steadily  at  the  lens,  and 
mark  the  curious  effect  produced.  The  friend  could  see  no- 
thing. 

"  Let  me  look,"  said  the  Quaker,  and  down  he  sat  in  the 
chair;  but,  like  his  friend,  he  could  see  nothing  worthy  of  notice. 
On  the  next  day,  however,  he  saw  his  own  likeness,  in  a  hand- 
some morocco  case,  which  he  received  with  the  compliments  of 
the  dexterous  operator. 

Not  long  since,  a  very  beautiful  young  lady  was  rather  sur- 
prised to  learn  that  a  certain  gentleman,  a  professed  admirer, 
had  her  Daguerreotype.  The  discovery  was  accidentally  made, 
and  puzzled  her  a  good  deal.  She  had  never  had  her  likeness 
taken  but  once,  and  then  only  a  single  picture  was  produced, 
which  was  in  her  own  possession.  The  Daguerreotypist  had 
taken  two  sittings,  but  in  the  first  sitting,  from  some  unknown 
cause,  as  was  alleged,  the  impression  on  the  plate  proved  to  be 
bad,  and  was  rejected.  It  was  shown  to  her,  but  so  very  im- 
perfect was  it  that  only  a  part  of  the  drapery  could  be  seen.  Had 
this  rejected  picture  been  even  a  tolerable  one,  the  lady  would 
have  at  once  supposed  that  the  Daguerreotypist  had  framed  the 
plate  as  a  specimen  of  his  art,  and  thus  brought  it  in  the  way  of 
her  admirer  ;  but  not  a  feature  of  the  face  being  visible,  this  sup- 
position was  not  entertained. 

The  fact  that  the  young  man  was  so  much  enamored  of  the 
lady  as  to  secure  her  picture,  operated  favorably  upon  her  mind. 
The  mystery  of  the  thing,  too,  had  its  effect.  'How  had  he  ob- 
tained it  ?  That  was  the  ever-recurring  question.  When  next 
she  met  the  gentleman,  she  felt  a  new  interest  in  him.  He  was 
particularly  attentive  and  looked  at  her  in  such  a  way  as  to  make 
her  feel  some  rather  indescribable  sensations  about  the  heart. 
But  the  mystery  of  the  Daguerreotype  was  not  explained  until 
after  she  had  given  him  her  hand.  One  day,  soon  after  this 
event,  she  said  to  him — "  You've  got  my  Daguerreotype." 

"  Me!'*  The  young  husband  looked  surprised. 


THE    DAGUERREOTYPIST.  125 

"  Yes,  you.  And  what  is  more,  you've  had  it  these  six  months." 

The  gentleman  seemed  a  little  confused  at  this  unexpected  ac- 
cusation, but  owned  to  the  fact,  and  forthwith  produced  a  very 
handsome  picture  of  the  lady,  who  looked  at  it  for  some  moments. 
That  it  was  not  the  rejected  portrait  was  plainly  enough  to  be 
seen,  for  it  was  even  a  more  perfect  picture  than  the  one  she  al- 
ready possessed. 

"  How  did  you  get  this?"  interrogated  the  lady. 

"  You  wouldn't  guess  for  a  month,"  replied  the  husband  ;  "  so 
I  suppose  I  must  tell  you.  I  learned  by  accident  that  you  were 
going  to  a  certain  well-known  Daguerreotypist  to  sit  for  your 
picture.  Happening  to  know  the  gentleman  very  well,  I  told 
him  to  secure  a  likeness  for  me  at  the  same  time,  which  he  did. 
That's  the  simple  explanation  of  the  whole  mystery." 

"  He  didn't  take  but  two,  and  one  of  them  he  spoiled,"  said 
the  lady. 

"  One  of  them  you  thought  was  spoiled,  but  in  that  you  were 
deceived.  The  plate  shown  to  you  had  never  received  an  im- 
pression from  your  form  or  features.  The  real  plate  was  dex- 
trously  laid  aside." 

The  bride  declared  that  the  whole  thing  was  an  outrage ;  but 
while  her  pretty  lips  uttered  the  harsh  word,  a  hearty  forgiveness 
of  all  parties  concerned  in  the  matter  beamed  from  her  loving 
eyes.  Not  a  few  likenesses  of  gentlemen  as  well  as  ladies  have 
been  secured  in  this  way. 

Incidents  more  pathetic  and  painful  in  their  character  than 
those  which  are  here  related,  are  of  frequent  occurrence.  Not  a 
great  while  ago,  one  of  our  Daguerreotypists  observed  in  his 
rooms  an  old  lady  in  deep  mourning.  She  was  a  stranger,  and 
was  looking  with  evident  eagerness  along  the  walls  at  the  va- 
rious portraits  that  were  exhibited  as  specimens  of  the  art.  All 
at  once  she  uttered  a  low  exclamation,  and  then  sunk,  half  faint- 
ing, upon  a  sofa.  Water  was  brought  to  her,  and  after  a  little 
while  she  was  restored  to  self-possession.  She  then  stated,  thai 
news  of  the  death  of  her  only  daughter,  a  resident  in  the  west, 
had  been  received  by  her  a  few  days  before.  Remembering  that 
a  likeness  had  been  taken  a  short  time  previous  to  her  going  to 
the  west,  the  faint  hope  had  crossed  her  mind  that  there  might 
be  a  duplicate  in  the  rooms  of  the  Daguerreotypist.  She  had 
found  it,  and  gazed  oftice  more  into  the  almost  speaking  face  of 
her  child ! 

11* 


126  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

Another  incident,  quite  as  touching,  occurred  at  the  same  es- 
tablishment. A  mother  came  with  her  first  and  only  child,  a 
bright  little  boy  of  four  years,  to  sit  for  her  likeness.  The  father 
was  along,  and,  at  his  instance,  the  child  was  placed  on  the 
mother's  lap.  The  image  of  the  little  boy  was  beautiful,  but 
the  mother's  picture  was  not  good.  It  was  then  decided  that 
the  mother  should  sit  alone,  and  that  they  would  have  the  child 
taken  when  he  was  a  few  years ,  older.  As  they  were  going 
away,  the  operator  tried  to  persuade  them  to  take  the  other  pic- 
ture'also,  the  likeness  of  the  child  being  such  an  admirable  one. 
They  hesitated,  but  finally  concluded  not  to  do  so,  saying  that 
after  he  was  a  little  older  they  would  get  his  portrait  taken  ;  and 
so  they  went  away.  Three  months  afterwards  the  mother  came 
again.  She  was  in  deep  mourning.  Her  boy  was  dead  !  She 
had  come,  hopeing  that  the  picture  of  the  child  might  still  be  in 
existence.  But  alas!  it  was  not  so.  Search  was  made  among 
old  and  rejected  plates  in  the  hope  that  it  might  not  have  been  rub- 
bed out,  but  after  looking  for  a  day  or  two,  the  mother  coming 
frequently  during  the  time,  the  search  was  abandoned  as  fruit- 
less. The  shadow,  fixed  in  a  wonderful  and  mysterious  man- 
ner by  a  ray  of  light,  had  faded  also,  and  the  only  image  of  the 
child  that  remained  for  the  mother  was  on  the  tablet  of  her 
memory. 

It  is  often  a  matter  of  surprise  to  some  that  two  portraits  of 
the  same  person  by  different  Daguerreotypists  should  appear  so 
unlike,  it  being  supposed,  at  first  thought,  that  nothing  more 
than  mechanical  skill  was  required  in  the  individual  managing 
the  instrument,  and  that  it  was  only  necessary  for  the  image  of 
the  face  to  enter  the  lens  and  impress  itself  upon  the  chemically- 
prepared  plate,  to  have  a  correct  likeness ;  but  this  is  an  error. 
Unless  the  Daguerreotypist  be  an  artist,  or  have  the  educated  eye 
of  an  artist,  he  cannot  take  good  pictures,  except  by  the  merest 
accident ;  for,  unless  the  sitter  be  so  placed  as  to  throw  the 
shadows  on  his  face  in  a  certain  relation  to  his  prominent  fea- 
tures, a  distortion  will  appear,  and  the  picture  therefore,  fail  to 
give  satisfaction.  The  painter  can  soften  the  shadows  on  the 
face  of  his  sitter,  so  as  to  make  them  only  serve  the  purpose  for 
which  he  uses  them,  but  the  Daguerreotype  exercises  no  dis- 
crimination, and  reflects  the  sitter  just  as  he  presents  himself. 
It  was  owing  to  bad  positions  and  bad  management  of  light  that 
the  earlier  Daguerreotypists  made  such  strange-looking  pictures 


THE    DAGUERREOTYPIST.  127 

of  faces,  one  side  of  which  would  be  a  dark  shadow  and  the 
other  a  white  surface,  in  which  features  were  scarcely  distin- 
guishable. But  great  improvements  have  taken  place,  and  some 
establishments  are  turning  out  pictures  of  remarkable  beauty  and 
excellence. 

In  order  to  obtain  a  good  picture,  it  is  necessary  to  go  to  a 
Daguerreotypist  who  has  the  eye  and  taste  of  an  artist,  or  who 
employs  such  a  person  in  his  establishment ;  and  it  is  also  ne- 
cessary to  dress  in  colors  that  do  not  reflect  too  much  light.  For 
a  lady,  a  good  dress  is  of  some  dark  or  figured  material.  White, 
pink,  or  light  blue  must  be  avoided.  Lace  work,  or  a  scarf  or 
shawl,  sometimes  adds  much  to  the  beauty  of  the  picture.  A 
gentleman  should  wear  a  dark  vest  and  cravat.  For  children, 
a  plaid  or  dark-striped  or  figured  dress  is  preferred  by  most 
Daguerreotypists.  Light  dresses  are  in  all  cases  to  be  avoided. 

The  strong  shadows  that  appear  in  Daguerreotype  portraits  are 
a  sad  annoyance  to  many  who,  like  Queen  Elizabeth,  see  no 
such  blemish  on  their  faces  when  they  consult  their  mirrors. 
"  Can't  you  take  me  a  likeness  without  these  dark  places  r" 
asks  a  lady  who  sees,  with  surprise,  a  dirty  mark  under  her  nose, 
around  her  eyes,  under  her  chin,  or  on  the  side  of  her  cheek. 
"  There  is  nothing  like  this  on  my  face."  "  Why  is  my  neck  so 
black?"  asks  another;  while  another  would  like  her  picture 
well  enough  if  the  face  were  "  not  so  smutty."  A  lady  with  a 
fair  skin,  upon  which  the  sun  has  left  some  minute  brown 
marks,  which  are  almost  hidden  by  the  warm  flush  of  health,  is 
startled  to  find  them  faithfully  recorded  in  her  picture,  and  made 
so  dark  as  to  appear  like  serious  blemishes.  "  What  are  these  ? 
There  is  nothing  like  them  on  my  face?"  she  inquires,  with  a 
look  of  disappointment.  The  artist  cannot  tell  her  that  her  face 
is  "  freckled,"  and  so  makes  some  evasive  excuse,  and  tries 
the  experiment  again  ;  but  with  no  better  success,  for  the  all- 
discovering  light  will  make  no  discrimination — the  little  black 
specks  are  still  there,  and  the  lady  goes  away  with  a  poor  con- 
ceit of  the  Daguerreotypist,  who,  though  he  could  make  the 
light  work  for  him,  could  not  force  it  to  record  any  thing  but  the 
truth. 

It  is  curious  to  hear  the  various  little  suggestions,  by  way  of 
improvement  that  certain  persons  will  make  when  about  sitting 
for  a  likeness.  A  stout,  fat  lady  would  like  to  be  made  a  little 
smaller,  as  she  is  more  "  fleshy  than  common ;"  while  a  lean 


128  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

one,  with  a  low-necked  dress  and  bare  arms,  desires  a  full, 
handsome  bust  and  round  plump  arms,  as  she  is  just  now 
rather  "  thinner  than  common."  Delicate  hands  are  particular- 
ly desired,  and  these  the  artist  who  attends  the  instrument  can 
give,  by  placing  them  so  as  to  receive  the  light  in  a  certain  way. 
And,  in  fact,  nearly  all  peculiarities  of  person  that  tend  towards 
deformity  may  be  modified  by  a  skillful  artist  in  the  arrange- 
ment of  his  sitter — though  he  cannot  help  cross  eyes  nor  make 
a  homely  person  beautiful — while  one  who  does  not  understand 
his  business  will,  in  all  probability,  distort  and  render  them  more 
unpleasant  to  look  upon. 

This  wonderful  art  is  yet  in  its  infancy,  and  those  engaged 
in  it  are  so  busily  employed  as  to  have  little  leisure  for  experi- 
ment and  improvement ;  but  ere  long  we  shall,  doubtless,  have 
a  higher  and  more  perfect  order  of  pictures  than  have  yet  been 
given.  The  art  of  preparing  the  plates,  which  is  by  depositing 
silver  by  galvanism  on  a  thin  copper  plate  and  then  polishing 
it  so  exquisitely  as  to  look  almost  like  a  mirror,  has  attained 
great  perfection ;  but  even  here  there  is  room  for  improvments 
that  will  be  made.  Still  more  artistic  skill  is  needed  by  those 
who  manage  the  instrument  and  arrange  the  sitter's  position,  for 
no  matter  how  good  the  plate  may  be,  nor  how  perfect  all 
the  manipulations,  if  the  sitter  be  placed  in  a  bad  relation  to 
the  light,  the  picture  cannot  be  good.  All  this  is  now  under- 
stood by  our  best  Daguerreotypists ;  and  those  who  give  most 
attention  to  the  improvement  of  their  art  will,  in  the  end,  reap 
the  richest  reward. 


SEED   TIME   AND   HARVEST. 


"  Whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that  shall  he  also  reap." 

Mr.  Wiley,  a  lawyer  of  some  ability,  was  sitting  in  his  office 
one  day,  when  an  elderly  gentleman  came  in  and  asked  to  have 
a  few  words  of  conference  with  him.  The  stranger  was  politely 
handed  a  chair,  and  asked  his  business. 

"  You  hold  claims  against  Porterfield  ?"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, as  he  seated  himself. 

"  I  do,"  replied  Wiley,  whose  manner  instantly  changed — his 
brow  contracting  and  his  eye  becoming  stern. 

"  Are  you  aware  that  there  have  been  several  meetings  of 
creditors,  and  that  there  is  a  strong  disposition  manifested  to  give 
Porterfield  a  chance  to  recover  himself?" 

"  I  never  attend  meetings  of  creditors." 

"  But,  now  that  you  are  aware  of  the  fact  I  state,  are  you  not 
willing  to  join  with  the  rest  of  us  in  helping  an  unfortunate  man 
upon  his  feet  again?" 

"  No.  I  have  my  own  interests  to  look  after,  not  other  peo- 
ple's." 

"  It  is  your  intention,  then,  to  push  through  the  suits  you  have 
commenced?" 

"  Certainly.     I  am  not  a  man  of  half-way  measures." 

"  Notwithstanding  you  sacrifice  the  interests  of  others  by  what 
you  do  ?" 

"  Let  others  take  care  of  themselves.  I  have  enough  to  do  to 
take  care  of  my  own  concerns,  without  meddling  with  the  con- 
cerns of  others." 

"If  you  go  on,  there  will  be  no  hope  for  the  unfortunate 
debtor." 

"  That  is  his  look  out,  not  mine,"  was  coldly  replied. 

129 


130  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  Pardon  me  for  suggesting,  that  an  act  like  this  concerns  you 
as  much,  almost,  as  it  concerns  him.  No  man  ever  deliberate- 
ly does  injury  to  another  without  himself  suffering  therefrom,  at 
some  future  day,  as  much  as  the  party  he  has  injured ;  although 
it  may  be  after  a  different  fashjon." 

"  I'll  trust  to  all  that,  sir.  Mr.  Porterfield  is  in  my  power,  and 
I  mean  to  make  him  feel  it." 

"  What  object  can  you  have  in  view,  Mr.  Wiley,  in  seeking 
to  destroy  a  man  in  this  way  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  that  you  have  any  right  to  inquire  into  reasons 
for  my  conduct.  I  am  at  least  sure  that  I  never  gave  you  any 
such  right,"  replied  W'iley. 

"  I  claim  no  right  but  the  common  right  of  humanity,"  said 
the  old  gentleman.  "  If  you  do  not  acknowledge  that,  my  in- 
terference in  this  matter  can  only  be  viewed  as  impertinent." 

It  is  certainly  not  authorized  by  any  relation  existing  between 
us,  and  therefore  I  cannot  view  it  in  any  other  light  than  the 
one  you  have  intimated,"  was  the  haughty  answer. 

The  old  gentleman  bowed  and  arose  from  his  chair ;  but,  be- 
fore leaving  the  office  of  the  lawyer,  he  said,  with  marked  force 
of  expression : 

"  Mr.  Wiley,  I  am  an  old  man.  Nearly  seventy  years  I  have 
borne  the  burdens  of  life  ;  and  in  that  time  I  have  gained  some 
experience.  Like  the  rest,  I  have  erred  in  many  things,  and 
for  every  error  there  has  been  an  after  visitation.  Life  has  its 
seed  time  and  its  harvest.  The  one  must  follow  the  other.  If 
the  seed  be  good  the  fruit  will  be  good  ;  but  if  the  seed  be  evil 
seed,  harvest  time  will  bring  a  plentiful  supply  of  bitter  fruits. 
It  cannot  be  otherwise.  Beware,  then,  of  all  acts  inspired  by 
malice,  revenge,  or  selfish  cupidities ;  for,  rest  assured,  that  at 
some  late  period — it  may  be  when  your  head  is  bowed  with  age 
and  your  heart  yearning  for  peace  and  repose — the  harvest  of 
this  seed  time  will  be  ready,  and  the  sickle  have  to  be  taken  in 
hand  to  reap  it.  The  haunting  ghosts  of  wrong  and  passion  that 
come  in  old  age,  Mr.  Wiley,  when  the  mind  most  needs  repose 
and  a  clear  conscience,  are  the  hardest  to  lay  of  any  that  disturb 
us  in  the  whole  journey  of  life." 

The  contemptuous  expression  that  rested  on  the  lawyer's  coun- 
tenance, showed  too  plainly  to  the  visitor,  that  his  words  had 
failed  to  make  any  impression.  He  therefore  turned  and  walked 
away.  As  he  left  the  office,  Wiley  muttered  to  himself— 


SEED   TIME   AND    HARVEST.  131 

"  Oh,  yes.  The  lashed  cur  can  whine  now ;  but  his  whine 
will  rise  into  a  cry  ere  long,  or  I  am  mistaken." 

The  cause  of  this  evil  determination  on  the  part  of  Wiley 
arose  as  well  from  unfeeling  cupidity,  as  from  a  settled  dislike 
which  he  entertained  for  the  individual  now  completely  in  his 
power.  Some  years  before,  Porterfield,  who  was  a  merchant, 
wounded  the  self  love  of  the  lawyer,  who  ever  after  felt  towards 
him  as  an  enemy.  Time  did  not  soothe  the  irritation  he  at  first 
experienced,  for  the  merchant,  who  was  successful  in  business, 
built  himself  an  elegant  house  immediately  opposite  the  more 
humble  residence  of  the  lawyer,  and  did  it,  Wiley  was  weak 
enough  to  think,  by  way  of  making  him  feel  his  inferiority  in 
point  of  worldly  wealth.  Year  after  year  the  handsome  dwelling 
of  the  merchant  stood  smiling  in  the  warm  sunshine,  but  was 
never  looked  upon  by  Wiley  without  his  seeing  in  every  part  of 
it,  from  cornice  to  pavement,  a  leer  of  triumph.  The  face  of 
Porterfield,  too,  when  he  bowed  to  him,  had  the  same  expres- 
sion, and  it  was  always  an  effort  for  him  to  return  the  bow  with 
any  thing  more  than  the  coldest  civility. 

At  last  Wiley  began,  as  the  saying  is,  to  feel  his  feet  under 
him.  He  had  talents  and  shrewdness,  combined  with  perse- 
verance and  industry,  and  these  gradually  obtained  him  busi- 
ness. From  yielding  an  income  barely  sufficient  for  the  ordi- 
nary wants  of  social  life,  his  practice  gave  him  something  over, 
and  he  began  to  accumulate,  As  soon  as  he  had  a  few  thousand 
dollars  to  invest,  he  looked  around  him  for  the  means  of  making 
the  sum  productive.  With  the  mere  interest  of  his  little  capita! 
he  had  no  thought  of  being  content.  He  expected  it  to  yield  a 
great  deal  more  than  that.  So  he  became  a  gambler  in  the 
stock  market,  and  through  the  aid  and  instruction  of  one  of  the 
knowing  and  secretly  operating  ones,  a  successful  gambler.  He 
rarely  lost,  and,  not  unfrequeritly,  doubled  his  investments.  In 
this  school  he  learned  utterly  to  disregard  the  interests  of  others, 
and  to  grasp  at  money  as  common  property,  to  be  obtained  by 
the  shrewdest  and  held  by  the  strongest.  If  his  neighbor  had 
ten  thousand  dollars,  and  he  could  get  them  transferred  into  his 
own  pocket  by  means  of  some  sharp  operation  in  the  money 
market,  he  never  stopped  to  trouble  himself  about  the  matter  of 
equivalent.  When,  therefore,  he  once  got  a  fair  start  in  the  race 
for  wealth,  he  advanced  with  rapid  strides.  By  associating  with 
himself,  in  his  profession,  a  young  lawyer  of  equal  industry  but 


132  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

less  grasping  cupidity,  Wiley  managed  not  to  have  any  part  of 
his  business  suffer  on  account  of  the  attention  he  had  necessarily 
to  pay  to  the  stock  market  and  his  operations  therein. 

In  the  meantime  the  large  family  of  Porterfield  was  begin- 
ning to  make  heavy  demands  upon  his  income.  His  son  had  to 
be  sent  to  college  and  his  daughters  to  expensive  boarding 
schools.  Added  to  this  came  a  long  pressure  in  the  money 
market,  producing  disturbances  in  trade,  and  sweeping  hundreds 
of  unsubstantial  merchants  from  the  arena  of  business.  Like  al- 
most every  one  else  who  had  any  thing  to  lose,  Porterfield  was  a 
sufferer  at  various  points.  The  loss  of  a  few  hundreds  of  dol- 
lars here,  and  a  few  thousands  there,  repeated  with  alarming 
frequency,  loosened  the  foundations  upon  which  his  prosperity 
had  been  resting  and  threatened  to  overwhelm  him  in  ruin. 

With  the  coolness  of  a  man  who  prepares  himself  for  the 
worst,  Porterfield  withdrew  his  son  from  college  ere  he  had  half 
completed  his  education — and  his  daughters  from  their  expensive 
schools.  The  former  was  placed  in  a  store,  and  received  a  sal- 
ary sufficient  to  furnish  his  wardrobe.  But  preparations  for  the 
threatened  storm  did  not  stop  here.  His  elegant  residence  was 
sold,  and  the  amount  realized  thereon  thrown  into  his  business, 
in  order  to  give  it  relief;  the  family  retiring  into  a  smaller 
house,  and  diminishing  all  their  expenses. 

"  With  our  sails  reefed  and  our  vessel  lightened,  I  think  we 
shall  outride  the  storm,"  the  merchant  said  to  his  wife,  after  they 
were  snugly  settled  in  their  new  home.  "  Our  expenses  have 
been  four  thousand  dollars  a  year  ;  now  they  will  range  within 
fifteen  hundred.  Twenty-five  hundred  dollars  saved  here  will  be 
no  small  sum  in  my  business." 

"  And  we  shall  be  as  contented  in  in  our  present  as  we  were 
in  our  former  style  of  living,"  said  Mrs.  Porterfield,  who  was  a 
strong-minded  woman,  and  just  the  one  to  stand  up  bravely  be- 
side a  man  in  the  battle  of  life. 

"  I  don't  know,"  returned  the  merchant.  "  I'm  afraid  not. 
What  most  concerns  me  is  the  fact  that  our  children  are  de- 
prived of  those  educational  advantages  I  so  much  desired  to  give 
them. — It  troubles  me,  whenever  it  crosses  my  mind,  to  think 
that  Edward  had  to  be  taken  from  college  just  as  his  more  im- 
portant studies  commenced.  These  can  never  be  resumed,  for, 
ere  I  recover  myself,  he  will  be  a  man." 

"  There  are  always  two  things  presented  to  us,"  replied  Mrs. 


SEED    TIME   AND    HARVEST.  133 

Porterfield — "  what  we  desire,  and  what  is.  What  we  desire, 
we  always  think  best ;  but  what  is,  is  of  Providence,  and  there- 
fore, undoubtedly  best.  Thus  I  reason,  and  endeavor  to  feel  sa- 
tisfied with  what  is." 

"  And  you  are  right,"  returned  her  husband.  "  But  I  can- 
not come  into  your  better  state  of  mind.  I  wish  that  I  could." 

"  Think  less  about  what  you  cannot  help,  and  more  about 
present  daily  duties,  and  you  will  come  into  this  better  state  of 
mind  much  more  easily  than  you  suppose." 

"  No  doubt  you  are  right  in  that,"  said  Mr.  Porterfield,  smi- 
ling. "  The  receipe  is  of  the  simplest  kind,  and  I  will  try  to  use 
it." 

Notwithstanding  the  reefed  sails  and  lightened  hull,  the  storm, 
when  its  violence  increased,  threatened  to  drive  the  vessel  in 
which  Porterfield's  earthly  goods  were  all  ventured,  beneath  the 
waves.  In  order  to  keep  afloat,  if  possible,  resort  was  had  to 
that  most  doubtful  and  desperate  financial  operation,  the  making 
of  notes  that  do  not  represent  a  mercantile  transaction,  and 
throwing  them  into  the  market  to  be  "  shaved." 

This  manufactured  paper,  was,  through  the  aid  of  friends,  is- 
sued pretty  extensively.  But  it  availed  not.  Porterfield's  barque 
went  under,  after  he  had  diminished  his  actual  property  some 
thousands  of  dollars  in  the  payment  of  enormous  discounts. 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news  ?"  asked  a  broker  of  Mr.  Wiley, 
one  morning. 

"  What  is  it  ?     Who  has  failed  now  ?" 

"  Porterfield." 

"  Good  !  I  expected  that,"  returned  the  lawyer.  "  Is  it  a 
bad  failure.  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Some  say  it  is,  and  some  say  it  is  not. 
His  paper  was  dishonored  yesterday,  and  there  is  plenty  in  the 
market." 

"  Ah  !  have  you  any  of  it  ? 

"  Yes.  About  a  thousand  dollars,  that  I  was  fool  enough 
to  shave,  when  I  saw  by  the  face  of  it  that  it  was  only  made 
paper." 

"  What  do  you  expect  to  get  for  it  ?" 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  take?" 

"  What  ?" 

"  Fifty  cents  in  the  dollar." 

"  How  long  has  it  to  run  ?" 
12 


134  SKETCHES    OF  LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

"Five  hundred  are  due  to-day;  and  five  hundred  will  ma- 
ture in  a  week." 

"  Has  a  meeting  of  creditors  been  called  ?" 

"  I  believe  so." 

"  Do  you  know  any  of  them  ?" 

"  Yes.  And  the  broker  named  over  half  a  dozen  who  were 
creditors. 

The  lawyer  thought  a  moment,  and  then  said, 

"  I'll  buy  your  claim  at  fifty  cents. 

"  Very  well.     So  much  saved  at  any  rate." 

"  And  I  should  like  to  have  four  or  five  thousand  more  at  the 
same  price,  provided  the  paper  has  already  matured,  or  will  fall 
due  in  the  course  of  a  week." 

"  You  can  be  accommodated,  without  doubt,"  said  the 
broker. 

"  Will  you  try  to  get  it  for  me  ?" 

« I  will." 

On  the  next  day,  notes  amounting  to  four  thousand  dollars 
were  brought  to  the  lawyer,  who  bought  them  at  half  the  sum 
they  demanded. 

Such  of  these  as  were  not  already  under  protest  for  non-pay- 
ment, were  noted  on  the  days  they  fell  due,  and  immediately 
sued  out.  Wiley  was  rejoiced  to  find  that  his  writs  were  the 
first  issued,  and  that  his  judgments  against  the  debtor's  property 
would  therefore  take  the  precedence. 

"  Safe  enough  !"  he  said  to  himself,  with  much  apparent  plea- 
sure, when  clearly  satisfied  of  this  fact.  "  I  shall  make  twenty- 
five  hundred  by  that  operation  and  put  Porterfield  just  where  he 
ought  to  be." 

At  the  third  meeting  of  creditors  which  convened  for  the 
purpose  of  final  action,  looking  to  the  relief  of  the  debtor  by  a 
liberal  extension  of  time  and  abatement  of  claims,  the  fact  that 
suits  for  five  thousand  dollars  had  been  commenced  was  unex- 
pectedly announced,  and  changed  the  whole  aspect  of  things. 
One  of  the  creditors,  an  old  merchant  of  liberal  feelings,  who 
was  respected  and  esteemed  by  all  who  knew  him,  undertook 
the  task  of  ascertaining  from  Wiley,  who  was  known  to  be  the 
sueing  party,  as  to  his  intentions ;  and  if  they  were  directly  ad- 
verse to  the  proposed  measure  of  relief,  to  endeavor  to  change 
them.  How  fruitless  was  this  effort,  has  been  seen.  It  was 
then  proposed  to  pay  off  his  claim,  but  to  this  the  majority  of 


SEED    TIME    AND    HARVEST.  135 

creditors  objected.  It  ended  in  the  debtor's  making  an  assign- 
ment of  his  property  for  the  benefit  of  all.  Wiley,  at  the  final 
dividend,  got  fifty-five  cents  in  the  dollar,  thus  making  about  ten 
per  cent,  instead  of  a  hundred  per  cent,  as  he  had  expected. 
But  he  was  satisfied.  He  had  not  lost  any  thing,  and  Porter- 
field  was  broken  up,  root  and  branch,  and  his  family  reduced  to 
great  extremity. 

This  took  place  when  Porterfield  was  forty-five  years  of  age 
and  Wiley  forty. 

Three  or  four  months  after  the  final  breaking  up  took  place, 
the  lawyer  met  his  victim  in  the  street.  It  was  the  first  time  he 
had  seen  him  since  he  had  so  heartlessly  destroyed  his  business. 
The  ruined  merchant  was  walking  slowly  along,  with  his  eyes 
upon  the  pavement,  and  his  whole  air  one  of  deep  dejection. 
So  deep  that  even  the  cold  and  selfish  heart  of  Wiley  was 
touched. 

For  days  the  lawyer  tried  to  thrust  from  his  mind  the  image 
of  his  victim,  but  in  vain.  It  was  ever  rising  up  and  rebuking 
him,  with  its  bowed  head  and  aspect  of  deep  despondency. 

"  I  wish  I'd  had  nothing  to  do  in  the  matter,"  he  said  to 
himself,  as  he  sat  alone  in  his  office  one  night,  with  this  image 
distinctly  before  him.  "It  may  be  that  I  went  too  far.  But  it 
can't  be  helped  now,  and  I'm  a  fool  to  trouble  myself  about 
it." 

While  these  thoughts  were  passing  in  his  mind,  the  door  of 
his  office  opened  and  a  young  man,  who  seemed  heated  by  pas- 
sion or  drink,  advanced  into  the  room,  confronting  him  with  a 
stern  and  angry  countenance. 

"  Your  name  is  Wiley,  I  believe  ?"  said  the  young  man. 

"  It  is,"  replied  the  lawyer,  rising  to  his  feet  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  have  just  learned,"  said  the  visitor,  with  something  of 
fierceness  in  his  manner,  "  that  when  my  father's  business  be- 
came embarrassed,  you  stepped  in  and  bought  up  claims  against 
him  at  a  discount  of  one-half,  sued  them  out,  thus  preventing  an 
amicable  arrangement  with  his  creditors  and  utterly  destroying 
his  business.  And  that  when  an  appeal  was  made  to  you  by 
one  of  the  creditors  deputed  for  the  purpose,  you  heartlessly,  and 
with  an  expression  of  ill  will  towards  my  father,  avowed  your 
determination  to  ruin  him.  Am  I  rightly  informed,  sir?" 

"  Leave  my  office  instantly !"  exclaimed  Wiley,  his  face  red 
with  anger. 


136  SKETCHES    OF    fc/FE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  Not  yet,  sir,"  returned  the  young  man,  more  cooly,  and 
with  an  air  of  resolution.  "  I  came  for  a  certain  purpose ;  when 
that  is  accomplished,  I  will  retire.  Not  before." 

"  I  give  you  one  minute.  If  you  are  not  out  of  this  room 
at  the  expiration  of  that  time,  upon  your  own  head  be  the  con- 
sequence." 

"  Answer  my  question  !"  said  the  intruder,  sternly. 

There  was  a  deep  silence. 

"  Base,  heartless  vil " 

The  minute  had  expired,  and  ere  the  young  man  could  finish 
his  sentence,  or  assume  an  attitude  of  defence,  the  lawyer  seized 
and  threw  him  with  great  violence  into  the  street ;  his  head  stri- 
king the  curb  stone.  The  young  man  lay  perfectly  motionless. 
It  was  dark,  and  no  one  happened  to  be  passing  at  the  moment. 
Wiley,  with  instinctive  alarm,  retired  within  his  office,  closed 
and  locked  the  door,  and  extinguished  his  lamp.  But  a  short 
time  passed  before  voices  were  heard  without.  He  listened  with 
trembling  anxiety.  Then  there  came  the  sound  of  many  feet 
and  many  voices.  A  small  crowd  had  collected. 

"  Is  he  dead?" 

"  What's  the  matter  ?" 

"  Who  did  it  ?" 

"  The  man  is  dead  !" 

These  were  the  words,  among  a  multitude  of  sounds,  that  fell 
upon  his  anxiously,  listening  ear.  After  awhile,  the  crowd 
moved  away  ;  and,  it  was  plain,  had  taken  the  injured  man,  dead 
or  alive,  away  also. 

Hours  passed  before  Wiley  ventured  to  steal  forth  from  his 
office  and  go  home  to  his  family,  rendered  anxious  by  his  long 
absence.  They  were  hours  into  which  were  crowded  many  bit- 
ter reflections  ;  and  many  self-condemning  thoughts  arose  sponta- 
neously in  his  mind.  The  seed  he  had  sown,  was  already  spring- 
ing from  the  ground  with  a  rich  promise  of  an  abundant  yield. 

On  the  next  morning,  when  he  came  in  sight  of  his  office,  he 
found  a  small  crowd  assembled  before  it.  His  heart  sunk  in  his 
bosom,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  could  force  himself  to 
advance.  When  he  arrived  at  the  door,  he  saw  that  there  were 
many  marks  of  blood  upon  the  pavement  and  curb  stones.  With 
an  effort  he  composed  himself. 

"  There's  been  sad  work  here,"  said  a  legal  friend  who  was 
standing  by. 


SEED    TIME    AND    HARVEST.  137 

"  So  it  seems,"  Wiley  merely  answered. 

"  I'm  told  the  young  man  is  dead." 
,  "  Indeed  !"  the  lawyer  with  difficulty  repressed  his  feelings. 

"  Yes.  It  must  be  a  sad  affliction  to  his  family.  It  seems  as 
if  troubles  never  come  alone.  Heaven  knows,  Porterfield  has 
had  enough  to  bear,  without  adding  this,  the  death  of  his  only 
son!" 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?"  asked  a  third  person  coming  up  at 
the  moment." 

"  No  one  can  tell,"  was  replied.  "  It  is  said  that  the  young 
man  was  found  lying  upon  the  pavement,  about  nine  o'clock  last 
evening,  with  a  frightful  wound  upon  his  head  made  by  falling 
upon  the  curb.  On  examination,  after  he  was  removed,  the 
skull  proved  to  be  badly  fractured.  Life  appeared  to  be  extinct 
when  he  wras  taken  up." 

"  He  may  have  fallen  in  a  fit,"  suggested  Wiley,  greatly  re- 
lieved by  learning  the  fact  that  young  Porterfield  had  been  taken 
up  insensible.  There  was,  consequently,  no  evidence  of  his  ac- 
tion in  the  matter,  and  it  was  possible  that  even  a  suspicion 
might  never  rest  upon  him. 

"  I  am  rather  inclined  to  doubt  that,"  was  answered.  "  The 
simple  fall  of  a  man  by  his  own  gravitation,  is  hardly  sufficient 
to  fracture  his  skull.  There  must  have  been  some  violence  in 
the  case.  What  time  did  you  leave  your  office,  Mr.  Wiley  ?" 

"  Early  in  the  evening,"  replied  the  lawyer,  promptly. 

"  Then,  if  there  had  been  a  rencontre  just  here,  you  would  not 
have  heard  it  ?" 

"  No." 

Relieved  in  mind,  Mr.  Wiley  went  into  his  office,  but  he  was 
able  to  attend  to  very  little  business  during  the  day.  The  dread 
that,  in  some  way,  suspicion  would  rest  upon  him,  haunted  him 
every  moment. 

A  coroner's  jury  was  called  and  an  inquest  held  over  the  body 
of  the  young  man  early  in  the  morning.  The  verdict  rendered, 
was  "  Death  from  violence  by  the  hands  of  some  person  or  per- 
sons unknown."  When  the  tenor  of  this  verdict  reached  the 
lawyer's  ears,  it,  in  no  degree,  added  to  his  happiness.  But 
time  passed,  and  not  the  slightest  whisper  of  a  suspicion  against 
him  was  breathed  upon  the  air;  nor  could  be  breathed,  for 
young  Porterfield  had  mentioned  to  no  one  his  design  of  calling 
upon  Wiley.  Pie  had  stepped  into  an  eating  house  and  called 
12* 


138  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

for  oysters  and  some  brandy  punch.  While  eating  the  oysters 
and  drinking  his  punch,  he  overheard  the  broker,  who  had 
bought  up  his  father's  paper  for  Wiley,  relating  the  circumstance 
to  some  one  in  an  adjoining  box,  and  commenting  upon  the  cold- 
hearted  manner  in  which  Mr.  Porterfield  had  been  ruined.  In- 
flamed by  this  intelligence,  as  well  as  by  the  strong  glass  of  li- 
quor he  had  taken,  the  young  man  instantly  retired  from  the 
cellar,  and  went  direct  to  the  lawyer's  office.  The  result  is 
known. 

The  violent  and  mysterious  death  of  his  son,  was  a  dreadful 
affliction  to  Mr.  Porterfield,  and  bowed  him  for  a  time,  almost 
to  the  earth.  But  he  recovered  himself,  forced  into  activity  by 
the  pressing  wants  of  his  family.  After  he  was  broken  up,  he 
made  several  attempts  to  get  into  business  again ;  but  as  heavy 
claims  still  rested  against  him,  he  found  it  impossible  to  get 
credit  even  from  his  best  business  friends.  No  attempt  was  made 
to  get  a  full  release  from  his  creditors,  because  it  was  deemed 
fruitless  to  make  the  effort,  in  consequence  of  the  balance  still 
unpaid  to  Wiley  and  some  two  or  three  others,  from  whom,  af- 
ter what  had  passed,  he  could  not  hope  for  any  favor.  The  best 
thing  that  offered  wras  the  collection  of  small  accounts  for  a 
newspaper  establishment,  which  he  undertook  to  do.  He  found 
it  extremely  fatiguing  and  the  returns  small ;  in  fact,  inade- 
quate to  the  maintainance  of  his  family,  with  which  he  had  re- 
tired into  a  very  humble  abode,  dismissing  all  his  servants  and 
limiting  every  thing  to  the  simple  necessities  of  life. 

Things  presenting  this  aspect  of  affairs,  Mrs.  Porterfield, 
who,  as  has  already  been  intimated,  was  a  woman  of  decided 
character,  represented  to  her  two  oldest  daughters  the  necessity 
that  existed  for  their  seeking  to  maintain  themselves,  and  thus 
relieving  their  father.  Their  education  being  defective,  they 
could  not  undertake  the  teaching  of  any  thing.  All  that  was 
left  for  them  was  to  acquire  some  skill,  by  the  exercise  of  which 
money  could  be  earned.  The  apparent  cheerfulness  with  which 
Mrs.  Porterfield  bore  their  sadly  altered  circumstances,  and  the 
wise  words  she  uttered  in  relation  thereto,  gave  strength  and  pa- 
tience to  the  minds  of  her  daughters.  They  applied  themselves, 
diligently,  to  the  duties  they  had  assumed,  and,  in  the  course  of 
a  few  months,  were  ready  to  go  out  into  families  to  sew,  one  as 
a  tailoress  and  the  other  as  a  dress-maker,  and  to  earn  regularly 
their  three  dollars  each  a  week,  which,  added  to  what  their  fa- 


SEED    TIME    AND    HARVEST.  139 

ther  received  for  collecting,  made  the  income  of  the  family  ap- 
proximate more  nearly  to  its  wants.  Cast  down  from  the  world's 
high  places,  and  afflicted  as  they  had  been,  the  family  of  Mr. 
Porterfield  were  better  contented  and  more  cheerful  than  was 
imagined  by  those  of  their  old  friends,  who  occasionally  thought 
of  them.  After  a  year  or  two  the  collection  of  accounts  paid 
better,  and  enabled  Mr.  Porterfield  to  supply  his  home  with 
more  comforts,  though  it  yielded  nothing  over  a  support.  But 
as  he  had  given  up  all  hope  of  ever  recovering  himself  and  get- 
ting once  more  ahead  in  the  world,  he  felt  thankful  and  con- 
tented. 

"  It  is  not  the  external  condition  so  much  as  the  internal 
state,  that  makes  our  happiness,"  he  remarked  to  his  wife,  after  all 
things  around  them  had  assumed  the  aspect  of  permanence.  "  I 
don't  know  but  we  are  as  happy  now  as  we  were  when  we  had 
our  thousands  at  command." 

"  We  may  be  quite  as  happy  ;  for  we  have  enough  to  give  us 
contentment,  and  it  is  truly  said,  that  a  contented  mind  is  a  con- 
tinual feast." 

"  It  grieves  me  sometimes  to  see  our  daughters  reduced  to 
the  necessity  of  earning  a  support  by  daily  labor.  It  is  so 
different  from  what  they  were  raised  to  expect.  I  cannot  but 
feel  that  to  them  it  must  be  irksome  and  disheartening.'' 

"  They  think  and  feel  right  on  the  subject,"  replied  Mrs.  Por- 
terfield. "  It  is  their  duty,  and  they  enter  upon  and  perform  it 
cheerfully.  They  do  not  appear  to  be  unhappy." 

"  No." 

"  And  they  are  not  unhappy." 

This  conversation  took  place  about  a  year  after  the  daughters 
of  Mr.  Porterfield  had  commenced  going  out  into  families  to  sew. 

On  the  same  day  Mr.  Wiley  said  to  his  wife, 

"  That  is  a  very  lady-like  and  interesting  young  girl  you  have 
sewing  for  you." 

"  She  certainly  is,"  replied  Mrs.  Wiley.  "  I  saw  her  at 
work  at  Mrs.  Todd's  and  liked  her  so  well,  that  I  engaged  her 
to  come  and  sew  for  me  a  couple  of  weeks." 

u  Do  you  know  who  she  is  ?" 

"  Her  name  is  Miss  Porterfield." 

"  Not  the  daughter  of  Porterfield,  the  merchant,  who  failed  a 
few  years  ago  ?" 

"  The  same.     Mrs.  Todd  was  telling  me  about  her.      She 


140  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

says  that  her  father  was  broken  up  in  consequence  of  one  of 
his  creditors  refusing  to  give  him  any  time,  and  driving  him  into 
a  general  assignment  and  abandonment  of  business.  Since  that 
time  they  have  been  very  poor,  and  the  daughters,  who  were 
raised  amid  fashion  and  elegance,  have  been  compelled  to  learn 
trades  and  go  out  into  families  to  sew  for  their  support.  Doesn't 
it  seem  hard  ?  If  that  unfeeling  creditor  knows  of  all  this, 
what  must  be  his  reflections  ?  I  would  not  have  them  for  the 
world." 

Wiley  turned  his  head  so  far  away  that  his  wife  could  not  see 
his  face.  He  had  that  day  seen  Porterfield,  his  clothes  worn 
threadbare,  hurrying  along  the  streets,  with  a  tired  and  anxious 
look.  He  knew  his  business,  for  he  had  collected  more  than  one 
small  account  even  from  him.  In  paying  them  he  had  not  ven- 
tured to  look  the  ruined  merchant  in  the  face. 

The  lawyer  said  nothing  more  to  his  wife  about  Miss  Porter- 
field.  For  two  weeks  he  met  her  daily  at  his  table,  and  felt  her 
presence  as  a  smiting  rebuke.  In  that  time  he  noticed  that  her 
temper  was  gentle  and  sweet,  her  deportment  modest,  yet  easy 
and  lady-like,  and  her  whole  character  one  of  unusual  excel- 
lence. *When  she  left  the  house  on  completing  her  engagement, 
Wiley  felt  a  strong  sense  of  relief,  and  he  prayed  that  she  might 
never  cross  his  threshold  again.  But,  year  after  year  she  came, 
'  at  the  desire  of  his  wife,  and  year  after  year  her  presence  was 
felt  as  a  stern  rebuke.  She  was  worthy  to  fill  a  higher  sphere, 
and  probably  would  have  filled  it  but  for  him. 

Time  passed.  Porterfield  continued  to  pursue  the  business 
of  a  collector,  and  Wiley  grew  richer  from  his  practice  and  his 
speculations.  The  heads  of  both  gradually  lost  their  jetty  hue, 
but  that  of  Porterfield  whitened  most  rapidly.  The  two  young- 
er daughters  of  the  latter  grew  up  and  were  married  to  worthy 
young  men  in  the  humbler  walks  of  life,  but  the  two  eldest  re- 
mained single,  and  year  after  year  patiently  walked  in  the  paths 
that  opened  before  them. 

Old  age  at  length  bent  the  forms  and  made  feebler  the  frames 
of  the  two  men.  Wiley  was  rich  and  gave  up  his  practice  to 
his  son,  and  himself  lived  at  ease ;  but  Porterfield  still  traversed 
the  streets  in  heat  and  cold,  and  earned  the  bread  that  he  eat, 
daily,  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow.  From  his  window,  where  the 
retired  attorney  sat  in  his  easy  chair,  he  daily  saw  the  bent  form 
of  the  victim  of  his  malice  and  cupidity  go  by,  his  step  seem- 


SEED    TIME    AND    HARVEST.  141 

ing  to  grow  feebler  and  feebler,  and  his  body  to  bend  lower 
and  lower  towards  the  earth  into  which  it  must  in  a  few  years 
sink.  After  awhile  Porterfield  moved  into  a  small  and,  to  Wi- 
ley, it  seemed  most  comfortless  house  that  stood  opposite  his 
own,  and  he  had  him  in  still  more  direct  aspect,  and  saw7  him 
from  a  nearer  point  of  view.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  Porterfield 
had  moved  there  with  the  intention  of  disturbing  his  peace.  In 
the  day  time  he  saw  him  come  in  and  go  out,  bending  beneath 
his  burden  of  years  and  care,  and  at  night  he  dreamed  of  him, 
and  of  the  son  whom,  in  a  moment  of  ungovernable  anger,  he 
had  killed. 

The  haunting  ghosts  of  wrong  and  passion  had  indeed  arisen 
in  his  old  age,  and  he  had  no  power  to  lay  them. 

At  last  his  unhappiness  became  so  great  as  to  force  from  his 
selfish  heart  a  consent  to  make  restitution  of  some  kind,  and  he 
sent  for  Porterfield.  The  old  man  came  and  sat  down  in  the 
luxurious  mansion  of  the  lawyer.  He  sat  firm  and  composed, 
while  the  lawyer  felt  a  strong  internal  agitation  ;  and  could  not 
look  steadily  in  the  face  of  the  man  he  had  wronged. 

"  Mr.  Porterfield,"  said  Wiley,  speaking  with  as  much  com- 
posure as  he  could  assume.  "  Do  you  remember — it  is  now  at 
least  forty  years  ago — our  meeting  in  New  York  at  a  hotel  in 
Broadway,  whither  we  had  both  gone  on  business  ?" 

Porterfield  bent  his  head  and  thought  for  a  moment. 

"  Yes,  very  well,"  he  replied. 

"  I  was  then  a  young  lawyer,  just  commencing  the  world, 
and  you  a  merchant  who  could  already  count  your  thousands." 

"Well?"  Porterfield  looked  wonderingly  at  the  attorney, 
whose  disturbance  of  mind  was  too  great  to  be  concealed. 

"  As  a  man  of  influence  and  some  wealth,  who  could  aid  me 
in  the  world.  I  desired  to  make  your  more  intimate  acquaint- 
ance, and  thought  this  a  most  fitting  opportunity.  I,  therefore, 
immediately  on  your  arrival  at  the  hotel,  where  I  had  been  for 
some  days,  met  you  with  more  than  usual  frankness  of  manner, 
but  was  coldly  repulsed.  I  thought,  perhaps,  that  you  might 
have  been  in  an  absent  or  pre-.occupied  state  of  mind,  at  my  first, 
approach,  and  tried  it  again,  but  was  met  in  the  same  frigid 
manner." 

"  Was  I  rude  to  you  ?"  asked  Porterfield. 

"  I  will  not  say  that.  You  were  distantly  polite.  I  could  not 
resent  your  manner,  but  I  felt  it  as  a  deep  personal  insult.'' 


142  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

The  old  man  bowed  his  head  and  sighed. 

"  That  insult,"  returned  the  attorney,  "  I  neither  forgot  nor 
forgave.  When  I  came  home  I  met  you,  as  you  well  know, 
often.  You  were  to  me  as  you  had  been  before  I  saw  you  in 
New  York,  polite  and  affable  when  we  happened  to  meet.  But 
I  shunned  you  and  hated  you.  When  you  built  the  elegant 
house  opposite  to  where  I  lived,  I  could  not  divest  myself  of  the 
idea  that  you  had  choosen  that  particular  site  in  order  that  your 
wealth  and  my  poverty,  so  to  speak,  might  be  contrasted.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  those  who  went  by,  made  the  contrast.  But, 
my  time  for  retaliation  came  at  last,  and  I  was  wicked  enough* 
to  obtain  and  use  power  over  you.  When  you  failed,  I  pur- 
chased your  paper  at  a  discount,  and  placed  myself  in  the  way 
of  an  amicable  arrangement  with  your  creditors.  You  were  bro- 
ken up,  and  I  had  my  triumph  at  your  downfall.  But  I  have 
never  been  happy  about  it  since." 

"  You  hated  me  ?"  said  Porterfield,  looking  calmly  into  the  dis- 
turbed face  of  his  enemy,  as  the  latter  ceased  speaking. 

"  I  did." 

"  You  hated  me  without  a  cause.  I  well  remember  my  visit 
to  New  York  on  the  occasion  to  which  you  refer.  If  I  had  met 
my  brother,  at  the  time,  I  should  have  treated  him  as  I  treated 
yo'u.  The  nature  of  my  business  I  will-  not  now  state.  It  will 
be  sufficient  to  say  that  it  was  one  causing  great  affliction  of 
mind.  If  I  was  cold  and  reserved  towards  you,  I  was  so  to- 
wards my  best  friends." 

A  deep  silence  followed  this  declaration.  The  l?wyer  had 
no  words  in  which  to  respond.  In  a  few  moment*  Porterfield 
said — 

"  A  gentleman  cajled  upon  you  a  few  days  after  my  arrival 
in  New  York  to  engage  you  to  attend  to  some  business  in 
Philadelphia  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Did  he  say  by  whom  he  had  been  recommended  to  you  ?" 

"  He  did  not.  He  merely  said  that  he  had  been  advised  to 
employ  me  in  the  case  by  a  friend  from  Philadelphia  who  hap- 
pened to  know  that  I  was  in  the  city." 

"  Did  it  never  occur  to  you  that  I  might  be  the  person  to  whom 
he  referred  ?" 

"  You  ?     Never !" 

"  I  was." 


SEED    TIME    AND    HARVEST.  143 

A  half-suppressed  groan  struggled  up  from  the  breast  of  the 
attorney  as  he  bowed  his  head,  and,  with  hands  clasped  tightly 
together,  sat  rebuked  before  the  man  he  had  so  deeply  injured. 
He  thought  of  the  murdered  son  and  shuddered.  That  deepest 
of  all  wrongs  he  could  not  confess.  The  maddening  secret  must 
still  lie  in  his  heart,  hidden  like  a  gnawing  worm. 

"  Mr.  Porterfield,"  he  at  length  said,  "  how  shall  I  repair  the 
injury  I  have  done  you  ?" 

"  It  is  too  late  now,"  returned  the  collector  calmly.  "  The 
past  is  forever  past.  The  pages  of  our  Book  of  Life  are  nearly 
full  and  cannot  be  written  over  again.  God  overrules  all  for 
good.  To  Him  I  look  as  I  draw  near  my  end,  and  patiently 
await  my  change.  I  have  suffered  much  in  the  wearisome  jour- 
ney I  have  come ;  but  suffering  has  taught  me  many  lessons  of 
wisdom.  I  do  not  complain." 

"  But  you  are  poor.  Your  children  are  poor.  You  are  all 
doomed  to  labor  early  and  late  for  food  and  raiment." 

"  We  labor  cheerfully.  Adversity  has  taught  us  contentment 
and  trust  in  Providence.  We  know  that  our  bread  will  be  given 
and  that  our  water  is  sure." 

"  I  will  repair,  in  some  small  degree,  the  wrong  I  have  done," 
said  Wiley,  after  a  few  moments  of  thoughtful  silence.  "  Your 
last  days  shall  be  made  more  comfortable.  I  will  imme- 
diately settle  upon  you  a  life  annuity  of  a  thousand  dollars  a 
year." 

A  bright  spot  glowed  on  the  old  man's  cheek  as  he  re- 
plied— 

"  No,  Mr.  Wiley,  I  cannot  accept  of  it.  I  have  still  health 
and  a  portion  of  strength  sufficient  for  my  daily  duties.  These 
yield  me  all  I  require.  I  ask  for  no  more.  If  you  have  done 
evil  in  any  part  of  your  life,  repent  before  God.  It  all  lies 
now  between  Him  and  you ;  for  what  you  took  from  me,  He 
restored  as  I  had  need." 

It  was  in  vain  that  the  attorney  urged  ;  Porterfield  was  firm. 
He  would  have  touched  fire  sooner  than  he  would  have  touched 
his  money. 

In  the  humble  dwelling  that  stood  opposite  the  splendid 
mansion  of  WTiley,  there  was  more  happiness  than  he  had  snp- 
posed.  The  bent  form  of  the  old  collector  was  not  so  pressed 
down  with  the  heavy  burdens  of  labor  and  care  as  he  had 
thought.  But  still,  as  he  daily  saw  him  going  forth  in  all  weath- 


144  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

ers,  steady  as  a  clock  to  his  appointed  duties,  while  he  sat  in 
his  easy  chair,  in  his  elegantly  attired  parlors,  his  heart  would 
smite  him,  and  he  would  turn  his  eyes  away  to  shut  out  the 
sight.  But  the  tighter  he  closed  his  organs  of  bodily  vision  the 
more  distinct  before  him  was  the  stooping  figure  and  long,  thin, 
gray  locks  of  the  old  man  opposite. 

Thus  the  time  wore  on,  and  Wiley  was  reaping  the  harvest 
he  had  sown  years  before.  He  had  scattered  the  seed  with  a 
reckless  hand  ;  but  the  principal  of  life  was  in  it,  and  while  he 
thought  not  of  what  he  had  planted,  was  putting  down  its 
small  fibres  into  the  ground,  and  shooting  up  its  green  leaves  to 
gather  strength  in  the  warm  sunshine. 

Wearily  passed  the  months  and  years,  and  at  last  the  old 
attorney  went  down  to  his  grave.  The  sun  of  his  life  did  not 
go  smilingly  behind  the  cloudless  hills  of  time,  but  set  in  dark- 
ness and  mental  gloom.  There  was  a  codicil  to  his  will,  dated 
after  his  interview  with  the  old  collector,  in  which  was  a  be- 
quest of  five  thousand  dollars  to  each  of  Porterfield's  daughters. 
No  reason  for  the  bequest  was  assigned.  The  heirs  were  sur- 
prised and  displeased  at  it.  But  the  executor  of  the  will  paid 
over  the  sums  bequeathed. 

To  all  there  is  a  seed  time  and  a  harvest,  and  whatsoever 
a  man  soweth  that  shall  he  reap — reap  here  as  well  as  here- 
after, 

In  old  age,  when  the  mind  needs  quiet  and  repose,  who  would 
be  troubled  by  the  haunting  ghosts  of  wrong  and  passion  ? 

"  God  forbid  that  I  should  "'  must  be  the  involuntary  prayer 
of  every  one. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  DAY  AND  A 
LIFE. 

A   SKETCH  FOR   HUSBANDS. 


Mrs.  Lundy  had  been  up  for  half  an  hour,  busy  about  one 
thing  and  another,  when  Mr.  Lundy  rubbed  his  eyes  open,  and 
concluded,  after  thinking  over  the  matter  for  some  five  or  ten 
minutes,  that  it  was  time  for  him  to  be  getting  ready  for  break- 
fast. So  he  crept  out  of  bed  and  commenced  dressing  himself. 

"  I  wish  you  would  get  me  some  hot  water,  Aggy,"  said  he 
to  his  wife.  "  I  must  shave  myself  this  morning." 

Mrs.  Lundy  was  busily  engaged  in  dressing  a  little  resisting 
urchin. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  replied  ;  "  in  a  moment."  And  kept  on 
with  her  work,  intending  to  finish  dressing  the  child  before  she 
went  down  stairs  for  the  hot  water. 

Mr.  Lundy  waited  about  a  minute,  and  then  said,  a  little  im- 
patiently, 

"  I  wish  you  would  get  it  for  me  now,  Agnes.  I  can't  finish 
dressing  myself  until  I  shave." 

The  wife  put  down  the  child  and  went  for  the  hot  water, 
while  her  husband  seated  himself  and  waited  for  her  return.  On 
receiving  what  he  had  asked  for,  Mr.  Lundy  commtneed  shaving 
himself.  When  about  half  done,  he  turned  to  his  wife,  who  was 
leaving  the  room,  and  said, 

u  I  wish  you  would  tell  Bill  to  clean  the  old  pair  of  boots. 
My  new  ones  hurt  me." 

After  shaving  and  dressing  himself,  Mr.  Lundy  went  down 
stairs  to  read  his  newspaper  until  breakfast  time.  Eight  o'clock 
13  145 


146  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

was  the  hour,  although  the  fact  and  the  time  did  not  always 
agree  together,  a  circumstance  that  fretted  Mr.  Lundy,  who  was 
a  very  punctual  man. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Lundy  had  herself  and  five  children  to  get 
ready  for  the  morning  meal,  and  she  was  working  diligently  in 
order  to  accomplish  her  task.  But  Maggy's  hair  was  stubborn, 
and  took  twice  as  long  as  usual  to  come  into  proper  order,  and 
Will's  temper  was  in  a  worse  condition  than  Maggy's  hair,  and 
worried  the  mother  a  great  deal  more.  And  then,  to  help  the 
matter,  the  baby  wouldn't  sit  quietly  with  the  nurse,  but  cried 
all  the  time. 

"  There  !  I've  broken  my  shoe  string !"  says  Will,  as  the  tie 
at  which  he  had  been  jerking,  gives  way  with  a  snap. 

"  Give  me  a  pin,  mother,"  calls  out  Mary,  who  is  dressing 
herself. 

Five  minutes  are  consumed  in  rummaging  drawers  and  boxes 
for  a  shoe  string,  which  must  be  had,  as,  immediately  after 
breakfast,  the  children  have  to  start  for  school,  and  there  will  be 
no  time  then  to  look  for  shoe  strings. 

At  last,  after  an  exciting  scene  of  about  three  quarters  of  an 
hour,  in  which  Mrs.  Lundy  is  worried  almost  to  death,  the  chil- 
dren are  put  in  order  to  meet  their  father  at  the  breakfast  table. 
And  now,  Mrs.  Lundy,  in  momentary  expectation  of  hearing  the 
bell,  commences  putting  herself  in  right  trim.  Her  hair  is  to 
comb  and  a  more  tidy  dress  to  be  put  on,  for  her  husband  can- 
not bear  to  see  his  wife  at  the  breakfast  table  in  dishabille.  Her 
hair  is  all  over  her  face,  when  ting-a-ling-a-ling-ling-lwg  sounds 
the  bell  up  the  stair  way.  For  full  ten  minutes  she  has  heard  her 
husband's  heavy  tread,  as  he  paces  the  parlor  floor,  to  her  the  un- 
mistakable evidence  that  the  cook  is  behind  her  time.  With 
nervous  haste  she  drives  the  comb  into  her  long  hair.  Crack ! 
It  has  broken. 

"  Good  heavens,  Agnes!  Ain't  you  dressed  yet !"  exclaims 
her  husband,  coming  to  the  chamber  door,  with  his  watch  in  his 
hand.  "  It  is  ten  minutes  past  eight  now.  I've  been  ready  and 
waiting  for  more  than  half  an  hour." 

"  I'll  be  along  in  a  minute.  I've  only  got  my  hair  to  put  up 
and  a  dress  to  slip  on,"  replies  Mrs.  Lundy. 

"  A  minute  !  Yes,  I  know  what  your  minutes  are.  I'm  sure 
you've  been  up  long  enough  to  have  dressed  for  breakfast  a 
dozen  times  over." 


HISTORY   OF   A    DAY   AND    A    LIFE.  147 

"  You  forget  that  I  had  all  the  children  to  get  ready,"  says 
Mrs.  Lundy. 

Silenced,  but  not  convinced,  the  husband  goes  grumbling 
down  stairs  and  recommences  walking  the  floor,  with  a  heavier 
and  more  rapid  tread. 

"  Go  up  and  see  if  your  mother  isn't  most  ready.  I'm  in  a 
great  hurry  this  morning,"  Mr.  Lundy  says  to  one  of  the  chil- 
dren, after  the  lapse  of  two  minutes,  which  seems  to  the  impa- 
tient man  at  least  five. 

"  I'm  coming,"  he  hears,  on  the  stairs,  from  his  wife."  : 

"  I'm  glad  of  it,"  he  rather  gruffly  responds.  "  I  knew  your 
minute  wouldn't  be  much  less  than  half  an  hour.  I  wish  you 
would  try  to  be  more  punctual;  this  ever  being  behind  time  an- 
noys me  terribly." 

There  are  some  meek  words  said  about  the  time  it  takes  to 
dress  and  see  after  so  many  children;  but  they  make  no  impres- 
sion whatever  upon  the  mind  of  Mr.  Lundy.  They  are  uttered  as 
a  kind  of  excuse,  and  he  regards  them  as  of  no  more  account. 

"  These  sausages  are  done  to  death,"  said  Mr.  Lundy. 

The  wife  remained  silent,  but  looked  worried. 

"  Mere  dish-water!"  Mr.  Lundy  set  his  saucer  down  with 
an  expression  of  disgust  on  his  face.  The  coffee  wras  not  to  his 
liking. 

"  I  wish,  Agnes,  you  w^ould  look  a  little  after  Sarah  in  the 
morning.  We  havn't  had  any  thing  fit  to  eat  at  breakfast  time 
for  a  month." 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  can  do  more  than  I  now  do,  Mr.  Lun- 
dy. I'm  sure  Fve  not  had  a  moment  to  breathe  since  I  got  up." 

"  Still,  I  think  you  might  spare  a  moment  or  two  to  see  if 
things  were  going  on  right  in  the  kitchen.  Comfortable  meals 
are  half  the  comfort  a  man  has  at  home." 

Mrs.  Lundy  sighed,  but  answered  nothing  to  this  ungenerous 
remark. 

"  Your  head  looks  like  a  perfect  mop,  Agnes,"  said  the  hus- 
band, as  he  leaned  back  to  pick  his  teeth,  after  having  finished 
his  breakfast  and  made  a  more  careful  observation  of  his  wife's 
appearance.  "  You  are  getting  downright  careless  about  your 
person." 

Mr.  Lundy  did  not  expect  any  reply  to  this ;  and  he  was  not 
disappointed. 

Four  children  to  wait  upon  at  the  table  kept  Mrs.  Lundy  too 


148  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

busy  to  eat  more  than  a  mouthful  or  two  herself.  It  was  time 
to  get  the  three  oldest  ready  for  school,  when  they  had  finished 
their  meal,  and  she  left  the  table,  where  she  had  been  a  mere 
waiter  and  not  a  participant  in  the  good  cheer,  to  put  on  Mag- 
gy's gloves  and  bonnet,  to  hunt  up  Will's  books  and  cap,  and  to 
change  Mary's  dress,  she  having  spilled  a  cup  of  coffee  on  it  at 

"  The  children  will  be  late  to  school,"  calls  out  the  punctual 
Mr.  Lundy,  who  has  gone  back  into  the  parlor  to  finish  perusing 
an  article  his  impatience  about  breakfast  had  not  permitted  him 
to  read  through. 

Just  then  his  boots  are  brought  in. 

"  Why  didn't  you  black  the  old  pair,  as  I  said  ?"  he  asks  of 
the  boy,  impatiently. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  wanted  the  old  pair,"  replies  the  boy. 

"  Didn't  Mrs.  Lundy  tell  you  that  I  wished  them  ?" 

«  No  sir." 

"  Well,  I  do.  Go  and  brush  them  as  quickly  as  you  can.  I 
ought  to  have  been  at  the  store  long  ago." 

Mrs.  Lundy,  who  is  coming  down  stairs  with  the  children,  at 
last  ready  for  school,  hears  what  has  been  said  to  the  boy,  and 
is  thereby  reminded  of  her  neglect  in  not  having  informed  him 
that  her  husband  wanted  his  old  boots. 

"  I  declare,  Mr.  Lundy,  I  forgot  to  tell  John,"  she  says.  "  I 
have  so  much  to  think  about  and  see  after." 

"  No  matter — I'll  attend  to  it  myself  next  time.  If  you  want 
a  good  servant,  serve  yourself,"  coldly  replies  Mr.  Lundy. 

The  children  off  to  school,  Mr.  Lundy  about  taking  himself 
off  also,  says,  as  he  stands  with  his  hand  upon  the  door: 

"  I  wish,  Agnes,  you  would  see  that  Sarah  has  dinner  in  time. 
You  know  how  it  annoys  me  to  wait." 

"  I  will  try  to  have  it  ready,"  replies  the  wife,  an  expres- 
sion of  pain  and  lassitude  passing  over  her  face. 

"  Are  you  not  well,  Agnes  ?"  Mr.  Lundy  asks. 

"  No,"  she  replies,  "  I've  been  suffering  with  a  dreadful 
tooth  ache  all  the  morning,  and  I  feel  as  if  every  nerve  in  my 
head  were  alive." 

•'  Why  don't  you  have  that  tooth  out  ?  I  would  not  suffer  as 
you  do,  if  I  had  to  have  every  tooth  in  my  head  extracted." 

Mrs.  Lundy  turns  away  with  a  feeling  of  discouragement.  She 
is  heavily  burdened,  and  has  no  true  sympathy. 


HISTORY    OF   A    DAY   AND    A   LIFE.  149 

Mr.  Luncly  walks  towards  his  store,  health  in  every  vein  and 
vigor  in  every  muscle  ;  and  his  wife  goes  wearily  up  to  her 
Chamber,  half  mad  with  pain  and  every  nerve  excited  and  quiv- 
ering. 

Arrived  at  his  store,  Mr.  Lundy  smiles  and  chats  with  a  cus- 
tomer, makes  a  few  entries  in  his  day  book,  fills  up  three  or 
four  checks  and  pays  two  or  three  bills.  These  acts,  with  a 
general  supervision  of  what  is  going  on,  make  up  the  sum  of  his 
doings,  and  bring  him,  with  a  good  appetite,  to  the  dinner  hour, 
when  he  sets  off  for  home,  allowing  himself  just  the  number  of 
minutes  required  to  walk  there,  and  expecting  to  hear  the  din- 
ner bell  tinkle  as  he  opens  the  street  door  of  his  house. 

After  Mr.  Lundy  left  for  his  store,  his  wife  took  the  baby  and 
carefully  washed  and  dressed  it,  during  all  the  time  of  which 
operation  its  loud,  piercing  screams  rang  wildly  through  her 
head,  and  caused  both  tooth  and  head  to  throb  as  if  beaten  with 
a  hammer.  After  that  she  had  to  dress  herself  and  go  to  mar- 
ket. Walking  in  the  open  air  made  her  tooth  worse,  instead  of 
causing  the  pain  to  abate.  When  she  came  home,  she  was  so 
completely  exhausted  as  to  be  compelled  to  lie  down  for  an  hour. 
This  brought  twelve  o'clock,  when  Maggy,  Willie  and  Mary 
came  bounding  in  from  school,  hungry  and  impatient,  and  the 
mother  had  to  see  about  getting  them  their  dinners,  and  attend- 
ing to  their  numberless  little  wants  until  it  was  time  for  them  to 
go  to  school  again. 

Half-past  one  came,  and  two  was  the  regular  dinner  hour. 
Remembering  her  husband's  last  words  about  punctuality,  Mrs. 
Lundy  went  into  the  kitchen  to  see  what  progress  the  cook  was 
making.  She  found  Sarah  paring  the  potatoes,  and  looking  as 
unconcerned  as  if  it  were  yet  two  hours  to  dinner  time. 

"  Your  dinner  will  be  late  again,"  said  Mrs.  Lundy.  "  Why 
is  it  that  you  keep  things  back  in  this  way,  when  I  have  told 
you  over  and  over  again,  that  we  wish  dinner  punctually  at  two 
o'clock?" 

*<  My  fire  got  down,"  replied  Sarah,  indifferently. 

"  Why  did  you  let  it  get  down  ?" 

"  It  got  down,  ma'am,"  Sarah  answered,  with  a  toss  of  her 
head. 

Well  satisfied  from  former  experience,  that  dinner  would  only 
be  retarded  by  any  efforts  she  might  make  to  hurry  Sarah,  Mrs. 
Lundy  retired,  and  waited  with  a  kind  of  nervous  dread  the  re- 
13* 


150  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

turn  of  her  husband,  her  tooth  and  head  meantime  aching  with  a 
dull,  boring,  fretting  pain. 

Punctually  at  two  she  heard  the  street  door  open,  and  Mr. 
Lundy's  decided  step  along  the  passage. 

"  Is  it  possible !  Too  bad !  Too  bad  !"  She  heard  him  say 
as  he  paused,  on  his  way  up  stairs,  at  the  dining-room  door  and 
saw  that  even  the  table  was  not  set.  "  I  wonder  what  good  it 
is  for  a  man  to  have  a  house  of  his  own,  if  he  can't  have  things 
as  he  pleases." 

"  I  declare,  Agnes !  I'm  out  of  all  patience,"  said  he,  enter- 
ing her  chamber  a  few  moments  afterwards.  "  I  told  you  when 
I  went  away  this  morning,  that  I  wished  dinner  at  the  hour,  and 
there  isn't  even  the  sign  of  its  being  ready.  It  really  looks  as  if 
it  were  done  on  purpose." 

"  If  I  had  the  cooking  to  do,  you  should  never  wait  a  minute. 
But  I  can't  always  make  servants  do  as  I  please,"  replied 
Mrs.  Lundy. 

"  That's  all  nonsense.  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  I  won- 
der how  I'd  get  along  in  my  business  if  I  were  to  let  my  clerks 
do  as  they  liked.  I  have  a  certain  order  in  my  business,  and 
every  subordinate  has  his  duties  and  knows  that  they  must  be 
done.  Reduce  all  your  household  matters  to  a  like  order,  and 
keep  everyone  strictly  to  their  duty,  and  you'll  have  things  right, 
but  not  without." 

Mrs.  Lundy  feared  her  husband  ;  or,  rather,  dreaded  and 
shrunk  under  his  displeasure.  If  she  had  been  more  independ- 
ent and  spirited,  she  would  have  silenced  instead  of  borne  his 
selfish  complainings.  But  she  was  a  meek,  patient,  suffering 
woman,  who  rarely  spoke  of  what  she  felt,  or  resented  an  indig- 
nity. She  did  not  reply  to  her  husband's  dogmatic  and  dicta- 
torial words  any  further  than  to  say,  in  a  subdued  manner — 

"  If  you  had  ignorant,  careless,  self-willed  Irish  girls  to  deal 
with,  instead  of  intelligent  clerks,  you  might  find  it  sa  difficult  as 
I  do  to  have  all  things  in  order." 

"  Send  them  away  if  they  don't  do  as  you  wish.  I'd  ne-fer 
keep  a  girl  in  the  house  an  hour,  if  she  didn't  do  every  thing  as 
I  directed." 

"  You  don't  know  any  thing  about  it,  Mr.  Lundy.  It  is  easy 
to  say,  send  off  your  cook  if  she  is  ten  or  twenty  minutes  late 
with  a  meal,  or  serves  it  up  badly,  or  does  any  thing  that 
is  disorderly  or  objectionable.  But  it  is  worse  to  have  no  cook 


HISTORY    OF    A    DAY    AND    A    LIFE.  151 

than  a  bad  one  ;  and  as  to  good  ones,  they  are  hard  to  be 
found." 

Mr.  Lundy  met  this  with  one  of  his  sweeping  specimens  of 
argumentation,  and  completely  silenced  his  wife. 

"  But,"  he  said,  impatiently,  "  I  can't  wait  your  cook's  move- 
ments. My  business  has  to  be  attended  to." 

And  away  he  flounced  from  the  house.  In  ten  minutes  the 
bell  rung. 

"  Tell  Sarah  that  Mr.  Lundy  couldn't  wait,  and  that  I  don't 
want  any  dinner,"  said  Mrs.  Lundy  to  the  waiter. 

As  for  the  very  punctual  and  amiable  husband,  he  went  to  his 
store  and  sat  through  the  entire  afternoon,  without  putting  hand 
or  thought  to  business.  A  little  patience  would  have  lost  him 
nothing,  and  made  both  himself  and  his  wife  happier. 

After  Mr.  Lundy  left  the  house,  his  wife  tried  to  do  some 
plain  sewing  for  her  children,  that  was  very  much  needed.  But, 
what  with  the  blinding  pain  in  her  head  and  face,  and  the  blind- 
ing tears  in  her  eyes,  she  found  it  impossible  to  take  a  stitch 
correctly.  So  she  laid  aside  her  work  and  took  the  baby,  think- 
ing to  nurse  her  if  she  could  do  nothing  else.  But  baby,  wide 
awake  and  full  of  life,  was  not  content  to  sit  quietly  in  her  lap, 
but  must  be  dancing  and  jumping  every  moment.  Patiently, 
for  nearly  an  hour,  did  the  mother  bear  the  jar  and  shock  of  the 
child's  quick  motions,  until  a  sensation  of  faintness  overcame 
her,  and  she  was  very  near  falling  from  her  chair.  After  re- 
signing the  baby,  Mrs.  Lundy  went  into  her  chamber  and  laid 
herself  upon  her  bed.  She  had  taken  little  or  no  food  that  day  ; 
had  been  suffering  from  severe  pain  ;  had  been  worried  and  ex- 
cited with  the  children ;  and  more  than  all,  her  husband's  un- 
sympathizing  and  unfeeling  conduct  had  made  her  feel  wretched. 
Is  it  any  wonder  that  she  felt  ill  ?  or  that,  when  Mr.  Lundy  re- 
turned in  the  evening,  he  should  find  her  in  a  condition  requiring 
medical  treatment  ? 

The  doctor  was  called  in.  He  did  not  understand  her  case. 
How  could  he  ?  The  medicine  he  gave  created  a  strong  revul- 
sion in  her  system,  and  did  her  actually  more  harm  than  good. 
She  was  confined  two  weeks  to  her  chamber,  and  then  went 
forth  again  into  her  household,  weaker  and  more  nervously  sen- 
sitive than  before,  to  direct,  control  and  minister  to  the  wants  of 
her  ever  wanting,  ever  active  children,  and  to  wait  upon  her  hus- 
band, consult  his  tastes,  and  hear  his  complaints  whenever  any 


152  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

thing  that  went  wrong  in  the  household  abridged  his  comfort  in 
the  smallest  degree. 

Not  less  than  three  or  four  times  in  a  year  was  Mrs.  Lundy 
made  sick  in  the  way  described.  When  she  was  bending  under 
the  burden  that  was  too  heavy  for  her,  her  husband,  instead  of 
lightening,  as  he  might  easily  have  done,  the  load,  or  given  her 
strength  to  bear  it,  laid  on  the  additional  weight  that  crushed 
her  to  the  earth. 

But  no  one  suspected  this  ;  not  even  Mr.  Lundy  himself.  The 
idea  that  he  was  murdering  his  wife  by  a  slow  and  cruel  death, 
would  have  shocked  him  ;  and  he  would  have  felt  the  intima- 
mation  of  sudh  a  thing  as  an  unpardonable  outrage.  And  yet 
such  was  really  the  fact.  He  was  murdering  her  ! 

Year  after  year  her  duties  and  her  toil  increased.  The  his- 
tory of  a  day  that  we  have  given,  was  an  epitomized  history  of 
her  life.  Mr.  Lundy,  wrapped  up  in  his  schemes  of  gain  and 
rigid  in  his  notions  of  order,  punctuality  and  formal  proprieties, 
had  no  real  sympathy  for  his  wife,  and  was  ever  complaining  of 
the  little  irregularities  incident  to  his  household,  and  ever  adding 
to,  instead  of  relieving  the  oppressive,  wearying  and  ever  re- 
curring duties  that  were  bearing  her  down.  It  was  a  common 
thing  for  him,  robust  and  in  high  health,  to-  sit  in  his  easy  chair, 
with  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  and  ask  his  tired  wife,  who 
could  scarcely  move  without  feeling  pain,  to  hand  him  this,  that 
or  the  other  thing ;  to  ring  the  bell  for  the  sen-ant,  or  even  to  go 
up  to  their  chamber  and  bring  him  something  from  a  drawer,  to 
which  he  was  not  willing  that  a  domestic  should  go. 

Meeker,  more  patient,  more  loving  in  her  character,  grew 
Mrs.  Lundy.  By  suffering  she  was  purified.  It  made  the  heart 
ache  to  see  her  moving  by  the  side  of  her  erect,  florid,  elastic- 
treading  husband,  more  like  a  pale,  shadowy  form,  than  a  real 
substance  ;  and  to  feel  assured,  that  in  a  very  little  while,  the 
places  that  knew  her,  and  the  children  and  friends  who  loved 
her,  would  know  her  and  love  her  no  more. 

At  last  she  died,  and  six  little  ones  were  left  without  the  af- 
fectionate care  of  a  mother.  If  her  husband,  who  wept  so  bitter- 
ly over  her  too  early  grave,  did  not  murder  her,  we  know  not 
the  meaning  of  the  word  murder.  When  it  was  too  late,  he 
could  remember  her  long  suffering,  her  patience,  her  wrongs  re- 
ceived at  his  hands ;  but  while  she  lived,  he  was  too  selfish  to 
appreciate  or  properly  care  for  her. 


HISTORY   OF   A    DAY   AND    A   LITE.  153 

Every  where,  in  books  of  domestic  economy,  in  tales,  essays, 
newspaper  paragraphs,  and  in  current  conversation  do  we  hear 
iterated  and  reiterated  the  lesson  of  a  woman's  duties  to  her 
husband  and  in  her  household.  She  must  have  every  thing  in 
order,  and  study  the  art  of  pleasing  her  lord  as  sedulously  as  if 
he  were  the  most  captious  tyrant  in  the  world.  And,  verily,  in 
his  small  way,  he  too  often  is  a  miserable  tyrant.  A  woman  is 
expected  to  be  perfect  in  every  thing,  and  to  do  every  thing. 
No  allowance  is  made  for  the  ill-health  consequent  upon  her  ma- 
ternal duties ;  nor  for  the  peculiar,  wearying,  and  all-engrossing 
nature  of  the  cares  attendant  thereon.  But  who  writes  and  talks 
of  the  husband's  duties  ?  Who  teaches  him  lessons  of  forbear- 
ance, patience,  and  kind  consideration  for  his  over-tasked  wife  ? 
Little  is  said  on  this  score ;  the  world  goes  on ;  and  hundreds, 
like  Mrs.  Lundy,  go  down  to  the  grave  years  before  their  time, 
and  no  one  dreams  that  their  husbands  are  accessories  to  their 
death.  But,  it  is  even  so.  Not  in  maternal  duties  alone  lies 
the  cause  of  the  wife's  pale  face  and  drooping  form — but  in  the 
over  tasks  of  her  peculiar  position.  She  is  worked  too  hard — 
harder  than  a  slave  in  the  cotton  field.  Too  often,  she  is  nurse 
and  sempstress  for  half  a  dozen  children,  and  superintendent  of 
her  household  besides.  She  will  bend  over  her  needle,  night 
after  night,  in  pain  or  suffering  from  lassitude,  while  her  husband 
sits  enjoying  his  volume  by  her  side,  not  dreaming  that  it  is  his 
duty,  in  order  to  save  his  wife  from  toil  beyond  her  strength,  to 
prolong  his  labors,  if  that  be  necessary,  in  order  to  afford  her  the 
assistance  required  in  meeting  the  thousand  wants  of  her  chil- 
dren and  household.  If  there  are  any  extra  tasks  to  perform — 
any  extra  exertions  to  make,  the  husband  is  the  one  who  should 
perform  or  make  them,  not  the  wife,  for  he  has  superior  strength. 

We  hear  a  great  deal  about  the  husband  coming  home,  wea- 
ried, from  his  store,  his  counting-room,  his  office  or  his  work- 
shop ;  and  the  wife  is  repeatedly  enjoined  to  regard  him  on  this 
account,  and  to  provide  comfort,  quietude  and  repose  for  him  at 
home.  This  is  all  well  enough,  and  she  should  do  so  as  far  as 
lies  in  her  power.  But  we  doubt  if  as  many  men  come  home 
overwearied  with  toil  to  their  wives,  as  come  home  to  wives  who 
are  themselves  overwearied. 

Husbands !  If  you  love  your  wives,  think  of  these  things. 
Don't  say  that  the  story  suits  Mr.  So-and-So,  admirably.  Look 
narrowly  into  your  own  sayings  and  doings  at  home,  and  see  if 
it  doesn't  suit  you  in  more  than  one  particular. 


NEVER   TOO   LATE. 


«  Ah  !  that  I  could  be  heard  by  all  oppressed,  dejected  souls !  I  would  say 
to  them — '  Lift  up  your  heads  and  confide  in  the  future,  and  believe  that  it  is 
never  too  late.' " — Miss  BHEMEB. 

"  Have  faith  in  time,  dear  sister!  Time  is  the  great  restorer 
— the  healer  of  wounds — the  dryer  of  tears.  It  is  never  too  late 
to  be  happy,  Edith." 

"  Time  may  encrust  our  feelings.  Time  may  throw  over  them 
the  pall  of  insensibility.  But  is  such  a  state  to  be  desired  ?  Do 
you  call  that  happiness  ?  Rather  let  my  heart  pulsate  in  agony 
until  its  last  convulsive  throe.  I  ask  not  this  letheon." 

"  Time  has  a  higher  mission  than  that,  Edith.  Time  has  a 
true  healing  power." 

"  But  it  is  merely  external,  Agnes.  Deep  wounds  of  the 
spirit  are  not  to  be  healed  in  time  nor  by  time." 

"  They  must  be  healed  in  time,  sister,  if  ever  healed  at  all. 
And  this  healing  does  not  proceed  from  external  to  internal ; 
but  in  true  order,  from  intimate  principles,  by  means  of  the 
most  ultimate,  even  until  health  reigns  throughout  the  entire  em- 
pire of  the  mind,  proceeding,  first,  from  what  is  interior,  and 
filling  all,  even  to  what  is  lowest  and  exterior.  Lift  up,  then, 
your  head,  dear  sister !  and  have  faith  in  time.  Believe  me,  it 
is  never  too  late." 

Thus  spoke  Agnes  May  to  her  younger  sister,  who  was  pas- 
sing through  deep  waters.  Agnes,  who  was  older  by  many 
years,  uttered  no  idle  words  in  what  she  said.  She  had,  her- 
self, been  a  sufferer,  and  had  come  out  from  the  glowing  cruci- 
ble, purified  by  affliction.  She,  therefore,  could  have  faith  in 
time.  She  knew  that  it  was  never  too  late  to  be  happy.  That 
time  was  the  healer  of  wounds,  the  dryer  of  tears,  the  great 
restorer. 

154 


NEVER    TOO    LATE  155 

But  Edith,  poor  suffering  Edith !  could  not  believe  that  time 
had  power  to  dry  her  tears.  Their  fountain  was  in  her  heart, 
and  she  felt  that  the  spring  was  unfailing. 

Agnes  was  older  than  her  sister  by  more  than  ten  years.  They 
had  been  separated  early  in  life,  in  consequence  of  the  death  of 
their  parents.  Agnes  found  a  home  with  a  widowed  aunt  in 
moderate  circumstances,  and  Edith,  who  was  a  beautiful  child, 
was  adopted  by  her  uncle,  on  the  father's  side,  and  raised  by 
him  with  affectionate  care. 

During  the  ten  or  fifteen  years  that  first  elapsed  after  the  death 
of  their  parents,  Agnes  and  Edith  met  but  seldom.  They  moved 
in  different  circles — one,  as  she  emerged  into  womanhood,  amid 
the  gay  scenes  of  fashionable  life  ;  the  other  in  a  quiet,  unob- 
trusive, humble  sphere.  Each  had  her  peculiar  experiences. 

The  aunt  with  whom  Agnes  found  a  home,  had  passed 
through  many  troubles  ;  but  out  of  them  all  she  had  come,  bet- 
ter and  wiser  for  her  trials.  Many  lessons  of  wisdom  were  im- 
parted to  her  neice,  and,  by  example  as  well  as  precept,  she  led 
the  opening  and  maturing  mind  of  Agnes  to  perceive  the  true 
beauty  and  excellence  of  a  patient,  hopeful  spirit,  even  under 
the  darkest  aspect  of  human  affairs. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-three,  Agnes  met  with  the  severest  trial 
a  young  heart  ever  endures,  in  the  faithlessness  of  one  into  whose 
keeping  she  had  entrusted  her  first  and  best  affections.  Many 
days  of  darkness  succeeded,  and  she  had  little  hope  of  ever  see- 
ing the  clouds  that  hung  over  her.  so  thickly  disperse.  A  few 
years  later,  and  while  there  was  still  a  deep  shadow  upon  her 
spirit,  the  best  friend  she  had  known  since  her  mother's  death, 
was  removed  by  a  like  affliction.  Her  aunt  changed  her  earthly 
for  a  Heavenly  existence,  and  left  her  friendless,  so  far  as  all 
the  means  of  support  were  concerned.  Her  uncle,  Mr.  Green- 
leaf,  with  whom  Edith  had  found  a  home,  instead  of  taking  any 
interest  in  Agnes,  had  always  felt  a  prejudice  against  her,  and 
discouraged  all  intercourse  between  the  sisters.  The  consequence 
was,  they  seldom  met.  When  her  aunt  died,  no  notice  was  ta- 
ken of  her  by  Mr.  Greenleaf.  Edith  visited  her  for  a  few  times, 
and  sincerely  condoled  with  her  in  her  affliction.  But  there  was 
little  sympathy  between  the  sisters — and  their  intercourse  soon 
became  as  formal  as  before.  It  was  a  matter  of  self-respect  on 
the  part  of  Agnes,  and  had  been  so  for  some  years,  not  to  visit 
at  her  uncle's  house.  She,  therefore,  never  saw  Edith,  unless 


156  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

by  special  visit  from  the  latter ;  and  as  these  visits  were  never 
very  frequent,  and  always  characterized  by  reserve,  they  rather 
separated  from  each  other  than  drew  together. 

In  order  to  sustain  herself,  Agnes,  who  had  received  from  her 
aunt  the  advantages  of  a  good  education,  sought  employment  as 
a  music  teacher. — Her  taste  and  ability  soon  procured  her  many 
scholars,  and  introduced  her  into  families  of  wealth  and  fashion. 

This  fact  soon  became  known  to  Edith,  greatly  to  her  aston- 
ishment and  mortification. 

She  had  called,  one  morning,  upon  a  fashionable  acquaint- 
ance, and  was  sitting  in  the  parlor,  waiting  for  her  to  come 
down,  when  Agnes  came  into  the  room,  accompanied  by  two 
young  ladies,  sisters  of  her  friend.  They  proceeded  to  the 
piano,  Agnes  not  noticing  the  presence  of  her  sister.  Her  bu- 
siness there  was  soon  no  problem  to  the  mind  of  Edith.  It  was 
the  first  intimation  she  had  received  of  the  fact  that  Agnes  had 
become  a  music  teacher,  and  her  chagrin  at  finding  her  in  the 
family  of  one  of  her  fashionable  acquaintances,  may  well  be 
imagined. 

In  a  little  while  Edith  was  joined  by  her  friend.  They  with- 
drew into  the  next  parlor,  and  closed  the  folding  doors,  the  friend 
remarking,  as  they  did  so — 

"  The  girls  are  taking  their  music  lessons  this  morning,  so  we 
will  go  in  here  and  be  by  ourselves." 

There  was  nothing  in  the  way  this  was  said,  which  left  Edith 
to  infer  that  Agnes  was  known  as  her  sister.  But  that  the  fact 
would  become  known,  she  felt  to  be  inevitable.  She  did  not 
stay  long,  and  w.hen  she  left  the  house  of  her  friend,  returned 
immediately  home,  and  made  known  the  mortifying  fact  she  had 
encountered. 

"  Impossible !"  said  Mr.  Greenleaf. 

"  Impossible  ?"  echoed  the  aunt. 

"  It  is  too  true.  I  saw  her  with  my  own  eyes,"  returned 
Edith,  weeping  with  mortification. 

"  It  must  not  be  permitted,"  said  Mr.  Greenleaf.  "  You 
must  go  and  see  her,  Edith,  and  tell  her  that  if  she  is  unde- 
the  necessity  of  doing  this  for  a  support,  I  will  pay  her  board- 
ing." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  will  be  of  no  use,  uncle,"  returned  Edith. 
"  Agnes  is  proud,  spirited,  and  independent.  She  will  not  ac- 
cept your  kindness." 


NEVER   TOO    LATE.  157 

u  Not  accept  it !" 

"  I  fear  not." 

"  Yes  she  will.  Giving-  music  lessons  cannot  be  so  very 
pleasant  an  occupation  that  she  will  prefer  it  to  ease  and  com- 
fort at  home.  See  her  at  any  rate." 

"  I  will,  and  use  my  best  efforts  to  induce  her  to  abandon 
what  she  is  doing." 

Edith  called  upon  her  sister,  and  made  known  the  object  of 
her  visit,  with  her  uncle's  proposition. 

"  Tell  Uncle  Greenleaf,"  Agnes  replied,  promptly,  yet  with 
great  composure,  "  that  I  am  obliged  to  him  for  his  offer,  but 
cannot  accept  it." 

He  will  be  much  displeased  if  you  do  not,"  said  Edith. ' 

"  Why  should  he  ?  He  has  no  claim  upon  me  for  obe- 
dience." 

"  But,  something  is  due  from  you  to  his  social  standing. 
How  will  it  it  look  for  you,  his  neice,  to  be  employed  as  music 
teacher,  in  families  where  we  visit  on  terms  of  intimacy  ?  Think 
of  that,  Agnes?" 

The  sister  looked  into  the  fair  young  face  of  Edith,  at  first 
with  a  rising  emotion  of  anger.  But  this  she  quickly  stifled ; 
and,  in  a  low,  quiet,  yet  firm  voice,  replied — 

"  Tell  your  uncle  to  forget  that  he  has  a  niece  named  Agnes." 

"  Agnes — " 

"  Sister!  let  me  once,  and  for  all,  tell  you  that  I  am  not  to  be 
influenced  by  any  considerations  that  you  or  Uncle  Greenleaf 
can  offer.  I  do  not  wish  to  trouble  you  in  any  way,  and  will 
not  do  so,  intentionally.  But  it  is  my  duty  to  use  the  ability  I 
have  for  my  own  support." 

"  But  uncle  offers  to—" 

"I  will  not  accept  his  offer!"  Agnes  replied,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  indignant  impatience  that  she  could  not  suppress. 
"  What  claim  have  I  upon  him  ?  Shall  I  sit  down,  meanly,  and 
fold  my  hands,  an  idle  pensioner  upon  his  pride  ?  It  is  use- 
less to  talk  to  me  in  this  way,  Edith.  I  am  not  to  be  moved 
from  the  doing  of  what  my  conscience  tells  me  is  right." 

Edith  went  back  and  reported  the  result  of  her  interview,  much 
to  the  chagrin  of  Mr.  Greenleaf,  who  felt  angry  at  the  indepen- 
dent girl.  No  further  attempt  was  made  to  influence  her ;  but 
she  was  never  recognized  by  her  sister  when  they  chanced  to 
meet  at  the  houses  of  her  fashionable  acquaintances,  among 
14 


158  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

whom  it  happened  that  most  of  her  lessons  were  given.  Her  re- 
lationship to  Edith,  however,  was  generally  well  known,  and 
the  fact  made  varied  impressions,  according  to  the  modes  of 
thinking  and  feeling  of  those  who  heard  it. 

It  was  something  of  a  trial  for  Agnes  to  meet  her  sister  and 
be  passed  by  her  as  a  stranger ;  but  her  mind,  rising  by  the 
pain  it  had  suffered,  was  coming  into  a  clear  region,  and  she 
was  able  to  excuse,  to  some  extent,  the  conduct  of  one  who  had 
been  nurtured  in  a  sickly  atmosphere,  and  among  those  who  had 
false  views  of  life. 

tn  the  course  of  a  year  or  two,  the  more  than  common  ability 
possessed  by  Agnes  procured  her  extensive  employment  in  her 
profession,  and  gave  her  an  income  that  exceeded  her  wants. 
But  this  did  not  cause  her  to  relax  her  efforts.  She  had  seen 
more  of  life  during  that  time  than  she  had  ever  before  seen,  and 
had  learned  to  think  in  a  higher  and  clearer  region  of  the  mind. 
The  necessity  to  do  something  for  a  subsistence,  forced  her  out 
into  the  world  to  use  the  skill  and  knowledge  she  possessed,  at  a 
time  when  she  was  sinking,  half-paralyzed  by  affliction,  and  suf- 
fering keenly  the  pangs  of  a  wounded  spirit.  In  doing  what  she 
felt  to  be  her  duty,  her  mind  had  been  sustained  to  a  degree  that 
filled  her  with  surprise  when  she  reflected  upon  it.  Her  thoughts 
flowed  in  a  healthier  channel,  and  her  heart  beat  with  a  more 
even  and  calmer  motion.  There  were  many  who  pitied  her 
lonely  condition,  and  sympathized  with  her  in  the  necessity  that 
required  her  to  devote  herself  so  steadily  to  her  profession ;  but, 
in  most  cases,  she  was  happier  than  those  who  felt  commissera- 
tion  for  her  lot.  Thus,  as  time  progressed,  the  mind  of  Agnes 
became  elevated,  purified  and  filled  with  a  religious  trust. 

Scarcely  had  the  heart  of  Edith  unfolded  itself  in  the  warm 
spring  time  of  young  womanhood,  ere  her  sky  became  overcast. 
The  worldly  affairs  of  her  uncle  fell  into  disorder,  and  his  family 
were  compelled  to  take  a  lower  place  in  society  than  the  one 
they  had  occupied.  This  was  a  sad  trial  to  the  selfish  pride  of 
Edith.  But  a  deeper  grief  awaited  her. 

The  beauty  of  Edith,  as  well  as  her  position,  attracted  many 
to  her  side,  who  sought  to  inspire  her  heart  with  more  than  a 
sentiment  of  friendship.  Among  the  most  favored  of  these,  were 
a  young  man  named  Carson,  and  one  named  Percival.  Both 
were  unremitting  in  their  attentions,  but  Carson  first  made  her 
an  offer  of  marriage,  which  was  highly  approved  by  her  uncle 


NEVER   TOO    LATE.  159 

and  aunt.  Had  all  the  influences  acting  upon  the  young  girl 
been  equally  balanced,  Percival  would  have  been  the  object  of 
her  choice.  He  was  not  so  highly  connected  as  Carson,  nor 
were  his  external  conditions  and  prospects  in  life  so  good.  But 
there  was  a  more  manly  impression  in  his  character,  and  Edith 
felt  that  there  was  a  more  genuine  warmth  about  his  heart.  But, 
the  ardor  with  which  Carson  pressed  forward,  secured  him  the 
maiden's  consent  to  become  his  wife.  A  few  weeks  afterwards, 
Percival,  unaware  of  what  had  taken  place,  declared  the  love 
that  was  in  his  heart,  and  received  for  answer  that  it  was  too 
late. 

For  some  time  after  Edith  had  become  advised  of  the  fact 
that  Percival  was  also  a  lover,  she  felt  more  than  a  passing  re- 
gret that  he  had  not  told  his  love  before.  But,  in  a  little  while, 
this  feeling  subsided.  The  closer  intercourse  which  a  betroth- 
ment  warranted,  soon  hid  the  impression  Percival  had  made 
upon  her  heart. 

Two  months  before  the  time  appointed  for  the  marriage  to  take 
place,  Mr.  Qrreenleaf's  embarrassments  became  known  in  busi- 
ness circles.  None  was  more  astonished  than  Carson.  None 
was  more  disturbed  by  the  event  than  he.  Edith  was  the  adopt- 
ed child  of  Mr.  Greenleaf,  and  Mr.  Greenleaf  had  been  thought 
by  every  one  to  be  a  man  of  very  considerable  wealth.  His 
niece  would  come  in,  eventually,  for  a  large  share  of  this,  and 
he,  as  the  husband  of  the  niece,  would  be  the  real  possessor  of 
all  that  she  might  receive. 

Carson  was  hardly  aware  that  such  thoughts  had  passed 
through  his  mind,  or  in  any  way  influenced  his  feelings  for  Edith, 
until  the  news  of  the  wreck  of  Mr.  Greenleaf 's  affairs  reached 
his  ears.  Then  his  real  motives  were  so  clearly  apparent  to  him- 
self, that  he  felt  a  momentary  disgust  at  his  own  cupidity.  But 
the  new  circumstance  that  had  transpired,  altered  so  materially 
the  whole  aspect  of  affairs,  that  the  question  of  fulfiling  his  en- 
gagement with  Edith  came  up  immediately  for  serious  discus- 
sion. Long  was  the  debate  continued.  The  love  he  really  felt 
for  her,  seconded  by  shame  and  pride,  argued  long  for  justice 
and  right,  but  the  voice  of  other  and  inordinately  selfish  consid- 
erations, was  louder,  and  in  the  end,  it  was  deliberately  deter- 
mined to  break  the  solemn  contract  that  had  been  made.  Pity 
for  Edith  was  for  a  time  felt ;  but  that  he  called  a  weakness 
which  must  be  overcome. 


160  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

Very  soon  after  the  change  in  her  uncle's  circumstances  had 
taken  place,  Edith  noticed,  with  a  thrill  of  alarm,  that  her  lover's 
visits  were  fewer,  and  that  his  manner  was  not  the  same.  She 
was  not  long  kept  in  doubt ;  for,  within  a  month  of  the  time 
fixed  for  the  wedding,  Carson,  under  some  pretence,  not  at  all 
satisfactory  to  the  mind  of  his  betrothed,  asked  to  have  the  mar- 
riage postponed. 

Too  well  did  Edith  understand  the  meaning  of  this ;  for  the 
very  manner  of  her  lover  betrayed  what  was  in  his  heart. 
Wounded  pride  inspired  her  with  a  momentary  indignation,  and 
enabled  her  to  say,  with  a  quivering  lip,  but  flashing  eye — 

"  Mr,  Carson !     You  are  free  !" 

The  young  man  arose,  bowed  low,  and  hastily  retired.  They 
never  met  afterwards,  except  as  strangers ! 

The  reverses  that  had  overtaken  Mr.  Greenleaf  proved  to  be 
utterly  disastrous.  Within  a  year  he  was  reduced  to  great  ex- 
tremity and  died,  leaving  his  wife  and  niece  penniless  and 
friendless. 

Poor  Edith !  Into  what  a  great  deep  of  miser}'  had  she  sud- 
denly gone  down.  Two  years  had  elapsed  since  her  last  meet- 
ing with  her  sister,  towards  whom  she  had  never  felt  any  real 
sympathy.  Now  her  thoughts  turned  towards  her  from  a  kind 
of  natural  impulse,  and  she  felt  as  if  it  would  be  some  relief  to 
her  wildly  throbbing  heart  if  she  could  lay  her  head  upon  her 
bosom,  feel  her  hand  upon  her  forehead,  and  hear  her  voice 
speaking  some  words  of  comfort.  But,  in  her  sunny  days  she 
had  turned  coldly  from  that  sister,  and  she  could  not  go  to  her 
now.  But  Agnes,  so  soon  as  she  heard  of  her  uncle's  death, 
hastened  to  visit  Edith.  She  found  her  mind  in  a  sad  state  of 
depression.  The  defection  of  her  lover  had  almost  broken  her 
heart,  and  rendered  her  desperate  and  impious  in  her  afflictions. 

"  Have  faith  in  time,  dear  sister !"  she  said,  as  soon  as  she 
could  begin  to  assume  the  office  of  comforter.  "Time  is  the 
great  restorer — the  healer  of  wounds — the  dryer  of  tears.  It  is 
never  too  late  to  be  happy,  Edith." 

The  answer  of  the  poor  sufferer  to  this  has  already  been  given. 
Edith  could  not  confide  in  the  future — she  could  not  believe  that 
"  It  is  never  too  late."  But,  at  each  interview,  Agnes  steadily 
sought  to  inspire  her  with  confidence  in  the  future. 

"  Our  life,"  she  would  sometimes  say,  "  is  not  made  up  of 
disjointed,  unharmonious  portions.  An  affliction  is  not  a  thing 


NEVER    TOO    LATE.  161 

isolated  as  it  were  from  every  thing  else,  and  having  no  bearing 
upon  the  whole  development  and  perfection  of  our  characters. 
Far  from  it,  my  sister !  There  is  no  circumstance  of  our  lives 
that  is  not  one  in  a  chain  of  circumstances  all  looking  to  our 
purification  and  consequent  happiness.  We  must  wait  patient- 
ly, taking  care  to  do  our  duty  in  the  present, -for  the  final  result. 
Believe  me,  sister,  that  this  is  true,  and  take  hope.  I  have 
passed  through  deep  waters,  as  deep,  perhaps,  as  those  through 
which  you  are  now  passing  ;  but  they  did  not  overwhelm  my 
fainting,  coward  spirit." 

The  circumstances  in  which  the  death  of  Mr.  Greenleaf  left 
his  widow  and  niece,  were  most  trying.  Already  had  they  been 
reduced  to  extremity,  and  only  subsisted  upon  a  light  salary 
which  he"was  able  to  get  as  a  clerk.  His  death  cut  off  all  in- 
come. Added  to  affliction,  came,  therefore,  the  appaling  sense 
of  destitution. 

"  What  are  we  to  do  ?  How  are  we  to  live  ?"  were  the  ever 
recurring  questions. 

"  You  have  health  and  ability,  Edith,"  said  Agnes  to  her  one 
day.  "  The  one  will  enable  you  to  .exercise  the  other.  For  you 
to  sit  idle,  now,  is  wrong,  and  only  increases  your  unhappiness. 
You  love  your  aunt,  to  whom  you  are  indebted  for  all  the  affec- 
tion and  care  of  a  mother.  Does  not  this  love  prompt  you  to  do 
something  in  return  for  all  you  have  received  ?  Does  not  the 
education  for  which  you  are  indebted  to  her  and  your  uncle  fur- 
nish you  the  means  of  supplying  all  your  wants  ?  It  does,  Edith." 

These  words  of  her  sister  caused  the  unhappy  girl  to  burst 
into  tears.  They  gave  her  to  see  clearly  her  duty,  while  she 
felt  a  most  bitter  reluctance  to  enter  upon  that  duty.  The  bare 
thought  of  it  caused  a  cold  shiver  to  pass  through  her  frame. 

"  What  can  I  do?"  she  forced  herself  to  ask. 

"  What  have  I  done,  Edith  ?     What  am  I  now  doing  ?" 

Edith's  only  reply  was  another  gush  of  tears.  To  expose  her- 
self in  families  where  she  had  once  been  on  terms  of  equality 
and  intimacy  as  a  music  teacher!  No!  No!  She  could  not 
endure  the  thought  for  a  moment.  Agnes  saw  what  was  in  her 
mind,  and  asked — 

"  Is  there  any  thing  wrong  in  learning  music,  drawing,  or  the 
languages  ?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  replied  Edith,  in  a  tone  expressive  of  sur- 
prise at  the  question. 
14* 


162  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  If  none  in  learning,  what  makes  the  wrong  in  teaching  them, 

sister  ?" 

"  I  did  not  say  there  was  any  thing  wrong  m  teaching  them, 

"  Why,  then,  should  you  feel  so  distressed  at  the  thought  of 
becoming' a  teacher,  when,  thereby,  you  may  have  the  means  of 
supporting  your  aunt  and  yourself  comfortably  ?  Should  not 
the  bare  suggestion  of  the  'thing  fill  you  rather  with  joy  than 

Edith  laid  her  head  down  upon  the  breast  of  her  sister  and 
abandoned  herself  to  a  fresh  burst  of  feeling.  After  this  had  sub- 
sided, she  lifted  herself  up,  and  looking  earnestly  in  the  face  of 
Agnes,  said — 

"  I  cannot  do  it !     Indeed  I  cannot !" 

"Do  not  say  that,  Edith,"  returned  Agnes,  in  a  cheerful 
voice,  smiling  as  she  spoke.  "  Do  not  say  that  you  cannot  do 
what  your  own  heart  tells  you  is  right." 

Edith  remained  silent. 

"  There  is  only  one  way  to  be  happy  in  this  life,  sister,"  said 
Agnes.  "  Only  one  way  to  .rise  above  the  depressive  power  of 
grief — and  that  is  in  doing  something.  The  old  monk  who  said, 
«  Work  is  worship,'  might  also  have  said — l  work  is  happiness' 
— for,  it  is  certain,  that  without  some  kind  of  labor,  either  of  the 
body  or  mind,  resulting  in  benefit  to  others,  no  one  can  be  hap- 
py. This  is  a  truth  that  every  one  receives  with  reluctance,  and 
yet  it  is  one  that  nearly  all  have  to  practice  either  of  choice  or 
necessity.  By  a  dispensation  of  Providence  your  aunt,  who  has 
been  to  you  as  a  mother,  is  thrown  upon  your  hands,  deeply  af- 
flicted, for  support.  Can  there  be  a  question  as  to  what  it  is 
your  duty  to  do?  Surely  not !  Can  you  hesitate  under  the  false 
suggestions  of  pride  !  My  sister  has  certainly  not  reflected.  Be 
brave,  be  true-hearted,  Edith.  Look  to  what  is  right  and  do  it, 
and  you  will  be  sustained.  Can  you  for  a  moment  regard  the 
opinions  of  those  who  knew  you  no  longer  after  fortune  ceased 
to  smile  ? — who  cared  not  for  your  personal  quality,  but  only  for 
your  external  condition  ?  Look  not  back,  sister.  Let  the  past, 
with  its  history,  be  sealed  up.  But  look  forward  in  hope.  Ask 
yourself,  earnestly,  what  it  is  your  duty  to  do,  and  that  duty  en- 
ter upon  with  a  resolute  spirit.  Think  of  this,  sister,  and  when 
I  next  see  you,  let  me  find  you  prepared  to  go  forward,  with  a 
firm  step,  in  the  way  that  is  now  made  plain  before  you." 


NEVER    TOO    LATE.  163 

What  Agnes  said,  could  not  fail  to  have  an  effect  upon  the 
mind  of  her  sister ;  seconded  as  it  was  by  the  peculiar  nature 
of  the  circumstances  by  which  she  was  surrounded.  When 
Agnes  called  to  see  her  again,  she  was  better  prepared  to  listen 
to  her  suggestions  ;  and  now  the  question  as  to  what  she  could 
and  ought  to  do,  came  up  for  consideration. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  could  give  lessons  in  music  with  any  suc- 
cess," she  said. 

"  Good  French  teachers  can  always  find  employment.  How 
are  you  in  French  ?" 

"  I  have  been  told,  by  natives  of  France,  that  I  speak  it  with 
great  purity."  ^ 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  teach  it  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Very  well.  You  need  no  longer  despair.  If  a  situation  as 
French  teacher  in  some  school  cannot  be  obtained,  private  class- 
es may  be  formed." 

But  Edith  could  not  see  how  this  was  to  be  done.  She  had 
arrived  at  the  point  of  willingness  to  teach,  if  she  could  obtain 
employment.  But  how  to  get  the  employment  passed  her  ability 
to  comprehend.  In  Agnes,  however,  she  had  a  ready  prompter. 
Through  her  suggestions  and  influence,  she  was  able  to  get  the 
situation  of  French  teacher  in  a  newly  established  seminary  for 
young  ladies,  with  a  salary  of  four  hundred  dollars  a  year.  This 
was  better  for  her  than  giving  lessons  in  private  families  ;  and 
was  not  so  great  a  trial  to  her  feelings  as  that  would  have 
been. 

The  purely  disinterested  conduct  of  Agnes  opened  the  eyes  of 
Mrs.  Greenleaf  to  the  genuine  excellence  of  her  character,  and 
she  could  not  help  expressing  to  her  what  she  felt,  and  regret- 
ting that  she  had  not,  long  before,  rightly  appreciated  her.  This 
expression  touched  the  heart  of  Agnes  in  turn.  Since  the  death 
of  her  aunt,  she  had  felt  the  want  of  some  one  in  whom  she  could 
confide — some  one  upon  whom,  in  states  of  recurring  weakness 
of  spirit,  she  could  lean.  It  did  not  take  long  for  them  all  to 
understand  each  other  better,  and  to  draw  closer  together  with 
reviving  affection,  the  more  intimate  this  knowlege  became.  In 
a  little  while,  one  home  contained  them  all — and  Agnes  con- 
tributed as  freely  of  her  earnings,  for  the  sustainance  and  com- 
fort of  that  home,  as  her  sister. 

"  I  said  it  was  never  too  late,  Edith,"  Agnes  remarked  to  her, 


164  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

some  months  after  an  arrangement,  so  agreeable  to  all  had  been 
entered  upon.  This  was  said  in  the  pause  of  a  more  than  usually 
cheerful  conversation.  "  Time  works  wonders." 

"  It  does.  I  never  could  have  believed  it  possible  for  me  to 
feel  as  I  have  felt  for  some  weeks  past.  I  cannot  say  that  I  am 
happy.  I  never  expect  that.  But  I  am  not  unhappy.  And  how 
great  a  gain  this  is,  I  need  not  say." 

"  It  is  never  too  late  to  be  happy,  Edith,"  replied  Agnes ; 
"  and  this  I  hope  to  live  to  see  you  prove.  Happiness,  as  1  have 
often  before  said  to  you,  comes  from  no  external  condition — but 
is  the  result  of  an  internal,  gradually  progressing  change,  by 
which  our  minds,  from  disorder,  are  restored  to  order.  The  use 
of  afflicting  and  disturbing  circumstances,  is  to  break  up  false 
and  selfish  states  of  mind,  to  the  end  that  newer  and  better  ones 
may  be  formed.  It  is  but  fair,  then,  to  infer,  that  in  the  pro- 
gress of  time,  external  circumstances  will  conspire  with  internal 
changes,  to  give  the  spirit  a  higher  degree  of  happiness  than  it 
ever  did,  or  ever  could  know  in  former  and  more  selfish  states." 

"  I  can  understand  you  better  than  I  did  before,  for  I  have 
a  type  of  what  you  mean  in  the  changes  I  have  already  ex- 
perienced." 

At  the  end  of  a  year,  Edith  could  speak  with  composure  of  the 
false-hearted  Carson,  and  feel  thankful  that  she  had  been  saved 
from  the  miseries  of  a  union  with  one  who  did  not  love  her  for 
herself  alone.  Time  united  the  hearts  of  the  three  afflicted  ones 
more  and  more  closely  together,  and  they  ceased  to  think  of  be- 
reavement and  affliction. 

"  It  is  true  as  you  said,  Agnes.  Time  is  the  great  res- 
torer— the  healer  of  wounds — the  dryer  of  tears.  I  have  been 
feeling  and  seeing  this  more  and  more  clearly  for  a  long  time." 

"  And  yet  clearer  and  clearer  will  be  its  manifestations  to  your 
heart,  Edith,  I  trust.  The  sudden  storms  that  come  in  the 
spring-time  of  life,  soon  pass  away.  The  darkening  heavens 
fill  us  with  alarm,  and  the  fierce  wind  and  rain  sometimes  de- 
stroy the  opening  blossoms  of  hope  and  love.  But  the  warmer 
airs  of  summer,  and  the  gentle  rains  and  refreshing  dews  bring 
forth  other  blossoms,  from  which  fruit  comes  in  the  calm  and 
peaceful  autumn." 

"  It  is  never  too  late,"  responded  Edith,  with  a  placid  smile. 

"  No,  sister,  never  too  late !"  And  Agnes  kissed,  with  some 
emotion,  the  fair  young  cheek  of  Edith. 


NEVER    TOO    LATE.  165 

A  few  days  subsequent  to  this,  Edith  started  to  come  home 
from  the  seminary  where  she  was  employed  as  a  teacher,  latei 
than  usual.  The  evening  twilight  had  begun  to  fall.  She  had 
gone  about  half  the  distance,  when  a  man  accosted  her  rudely. 
She  walked  on  more  rapidly,  and  he  followed  close  by  her  side. 
Frightened  and  confused,  she  started  to  run,  when  he  caught 
her  hand  and  held  it  tightly.  An  involuntary  cry  for  help  es- 
caped her  lips.  At  this  instant  a  gentleman  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  street,  who  had  noticed  the  rudeness,  came  quickly  over. 
At  his  approach  the  villain  took  to  his  heels  and  ran  off. 

"  Miss  May  !  Is  it  possible!"  he  exclaimed,  so  soon  as  he 
saw  that  it  was  Edith. 

The  frightened  girl  was  panting  so  that  she  could  not,  for  a 
few  moments,  articulate.  As  soon  as  she  was  able  to  speak,  she 
said,  in  a  trembling  voice, 

"  Accept  my  thanks,  Mr.  Percival,  for  your  protection." 

"  The  scoundrel !     If  I  could  have  got  my  hands  on  him  !" 

The  young  man  spoke  with  a  suddenly  aroused  indignation. 

"  Let  me  see  you  safely  home,"  he  added,  offering  an  arm, 
which  Edith  took.  He  could  feel  her  light  hand  tremble.  For 
a  short  distance  they  walked  along  in  silence. 

"  You  are  out  rather  late,"  the  young  man  then  remarked. 
He  felt  that  it  was  necessary  to  say  something. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  later  than  usual.  The  days  are  short, 
and  my  class  is  large." 

"  You  are  teaching,  then  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  give  French  lessons  in  Madame  Million's  Semina- 
ry." Edith  spoke  without  embarassment. 

"  Indeed !" 

For  a  short  distance  farther  they  again  walked  on  in  silence. 

"  Did  your  uncle  leave  nothing  to  his  family  when  he  died  ?" 
asked  Percival. 
-    "  Nothing,"  replied  Edith. 

"  And  you  are  compelled  t'o  teach  French  for  your  own  sup- 
port?" 

"  And  that  of  my  aunt." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?     I  did  not  know  this." 

After  another  pause,  the  young  man  said — 

"  Do  you  not  find  your  duties  very  fatiguing  and  irksome  ?" 

"  Not  now." 

"  They  were  at  first  ?" 


166  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

:  Yes.     But  I  perform  them  cheerfully  now." 
:  How  is  your  aunt,  Mrs.  Greenleaf  ?" 
She  is  well." 

And  cheerful  as  you  are  ?" 

Yes.     We  have  all  learned  the  happy  art  of  being  content 
with  our  lot." 

"  Then  you  have  learned  more  than  is  ordinarily  learned  in  a 
whole  lifetime." 

As  Percival  said  this,  Edith  paused.  They  stood  before  a 
small  but  neat  house. 

"  This  is  our  home,"  said  she.  "  For  your  timely  protection 
and  kindness  in  accompanying  me,  I  sincerely  thank  you." 

Percival  took  the  maiden's  hand  in  his  as  they  were  about 
separating.  His  ear  had  detected  a  slight  quivering  of  her  voice 
as  she  uttered  the  last  sentence ;  and  now  he  perceived  a  low 
tremor  in  her  hand  that  he  still  held  in  his  own,  while  his  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  her  face,  but  dimly  seen  in  the  deepening  twi- 
light. A  few  moments  passed,  and  then  the  door  of  Edith's 
home  closed  between  them,  and  Percival  walked  slowly  away 
with  his  eyes  cast  upon  the  pavement. 

The  sleep  of  Edith  that  night  was  not  so  quiet  and  dreamless 
as  it  had  been  for  months.  In  the  morning  she  came  down  with 
a  slightly  flushed  cheek.  Through  the  day  she  found  it  almost 
impossible  to  fix  her  mind  upon  the  lessons  it  was  her  duty  to 
impart,  and  when  evening  came,  she  felt  a  sense  of  relief  in  es- 
caping from  the  crowded  rooms.  She  was  walking  slowly  to- 
wards home,  with  her  eyes  upon  the  ground,  when  she  started 
suddenly  at  hearing  her  name  pronounced  by  a  well-remembered 
voice.  She  looked  up,  and  met  the  eyes  of  Percival  fixed  ear- 
nestly upon  her.  A  deep  crimson  suffused  her  face,  and  to  his 
kind  salutation  she  could  not  command  her  voice  sufficiently  to 
reply.  The  young  man  turned  and  walked  by  her  side  for  some 
distance.  He  then  said, — 

"  It  is  now  more  than  two  years,  Edith,  since  I  ventured  to 
tell  you  what  was  in  my  heart,  when  I  learned,  much  to  my 
grief  and  disappointment,  that  I  had  preferred  my  suit  too  late. 
No,  let  me  not  say  too  late,  but  too  soon.  There  have  been 
changes  since  then,  Edith,  but  I  have  remained  the  same  ;  and 
this  hour  my  regard  for  you  is  higher  and  my  love  intenser  than 
it  was  then,  for  I  find  that  the  fire  through  which  you  have  passed 
has  tried  and  proved  you.  I  now  renew  the  offer  I  then  made — 
can  you,  will  you  accept  it  ?" 


NEVER    TOO    LATE.  167 

Taken  thus  by  surprise,  the  bewildered  but  happy  girl,  scarce- 
ly knew  how  to  reply.  Though  her  face  was  partly  turned 
away,  Percival  perceived  that  her  bosom  was  heaving  rapidly. 
Hurriedly,  yet  clearly  as  she  could  think,  did  Edith  reflect  upon 
her  position,  and  seek  to  determine  how  she  ought  to  speak  and 
act.  At  length,  with  a  tremulous  voice,  she  said — 

"  You  have  spoken  with  so  little  disguise  to  me,  that  I  feel 
bound  to  speak,  in  return,  as  freely  to  you.  Had  your  first 
offer  been  made  before  I  accepted  another,  or  had  I  known  of 
your  intentions  earlier,  the  result  would  have  been  different." 

"  Then  you  do  not  reject  my  suit  now?" 

"  I  would  be  false  to  my  own  heart  were  I  to  do  so,"  was  the 
maiden's  frank  reply. 

A  few  months  only  elapsed  before  Edith  was  the  happy 
mistress  of  the  true  heart  and  elegant  home  of  her  husband,  Ed- 
gar Percival,  and  took  her  place  once  more  in  the  higher  so- 
cial circles,  with  a  companion  equally  worthy  of  the  elevation 
in  Agnes. 

"  It  is  never  too  late,"  significantly  remarked  Agnes,  as  she 
sat  holding  the  hand  of  her  sister,  on  the  day  succeeding  her 
marriage. 

"  No,  never  too  late.  Time  is  the  great  restorer,"  answered 
Edith,  while  the  tears  of  joy  sprung  to  her  eyes. 

The  virtues,  accomplishments  and  great  moral  worth  of  Ag- 
nes May,  could  not  remain  hidden  in  the  more  conspicuous  place 
which  she  now  occupied  as  the  companion  of  her  sister.  One 
who  could  appreciate  and  love  the  qualities  she  possessed,  be- 
cause they  corresponded  to  the  excellencies  of  his  own  charac- 
ter, sought  and  won  her  regard. 

"  It  is  never  too  late,"  Edith  said  in  turn,  as  she  sat  by  the 
side  of  Agnes,  half  an  hour  after  her  sister  had  made  her  solemn 
marriage  vow. 

"  No,  never,"  was  the  calmly  spoken  answer. 


THE  SLEIGH   RIDE. 


"Well,  I  never!"  said  Aunt  Rachel,  retiring  from  the  win- 
dow, where  she  had  been  sitting  for  half  an  hour  in  mute  aston- 
ishment. "The  like  o'  this  beats  all!  I  thought  I'd  seen 
sleighing  in  my  time." 

There  had  been  a  cold  snap  in  January,  lasting  for  six  or 
seven  days,  after  which  it  slightly  moderated,  and  signs  of  "fall- 
ing weather  "  became  apparent.  About  sunset  the  snow  began 
to  fall  in  broad  flakes,  that  came  down  with  a  light  and  graceful 
motion,  clothing,  ere  the  twilight  had  found  its  darkest  shadows, 
all  things  in  a  mantle  of  white. 

A  few  weeks  previous  to  this  time,  Aunt  Rachel  had  come  on 
a  visit  to  New  York,  a  city  which  had  grown,  in  thirty  years, 
entirely  out  of  her  recollection.  A  denizen  of  a  quiet  Ne\v  Eng- 
land village,  her  ideas  were  formed  on  the  model  of  things  around 
her.  She  had  seen  New  York  once  before  in  her  life,  but  her 
memory  of  the  place  embraced  little  more  than  images  of  houses 
and  streets  thrown  together  without  order  or  beauty.  All,  there- 
fore, was  new,  and  as  strange  as  new.  Broadway  was  a  per- 
fect wonder  to  her.  She  sat  at  her  window  and  looked  out  upon 
it  for  hours,  and  yet,  in  the  great  moving  panorama  beneath  her, 
new  objects  of  interest  were  every  moment  appearing. 

"  It  is  like  a  dream !"  would  fall  from  the  old  lady's  lips  a 
dozen  times  through  the  day.  But  she  had  seen  New  York  only 
in  a  single  phase,  so  to  speak,  and  but  half  perceived  the  tokens 
of  wild  and  vigorous  life  panting  in  every  vein  for  action. 

"  We're  going  to  have  sleighing,"  said  one  of  her  nephews, 
as  he  came  in  on  the  night  of  the  storm  ;  "  there  are  three  inches 
of  snow  on  the  ground  now." 

168 


/ 


THE    SLEIGH    RIDE.  169 

"Are  we?  Oh,  I'm  so  glad!"  cried  a  sister.  "Wouldn't 
you  like  to  have  a  sleigh  ride,  Aunt  Rachel  ?" 

"  Well,  yes ;  I  wouldn't  mind  it,"  returned  the  old  lady. 

"  Then  you  shall  have  one,  Aunt  Rachel,"  said  the  nephew, 
promptly  ;  "  a  first-rate  New  York  sleigh  ride.  And  you'll  find 
that  an  improvement  on  any  thing  you've  ever  seen." 

The  old  lady  smiled,  and  replied  that  she  believed  she'd  seen 
a  little  sleigh  riding  in  her  time,  and  some  of  it  equal  to  any 
thing  New  York  could  show. 

"  Wait  until  to-morrow,  Aunt  Rachel,"  said  the  young  peo- 
ple ;  "  and  if  it  have  snowed  all  night  as  it  is  snowing  now, 
you'll  change  your  opinion  before  the  day  is  half  over." 

"Don't  be  so  certain  of  that,"  was  the  confident  answer. 
"  Why,  I've  seen  snow  on  the  ground  for  three  months  at  a  time  ; 
here  if  you  have  it  three  days,  you  are  thankful." 

"  No  matter.  In  three  days  we'll  do  more  sleighing  than  you 
ever  saw  in  your  whole  life." 

The  old  lady  smiled  incredulously.  New  York  went  ahead 
in  nearly  every  thing,  but  it  was  nonsense  to  talk  about  its  beat- 
ing snowy  New  England  in  matters  of  this  kind. 

While  they  yet  talked,  the  jingle  of  bells  was  heard  in  the 
street. 

"  There's  the  beginning  !"  exclaimed  one. 

They  all  listened  for  a  few  moments. 

"  Yes,  there's  the  beginning." 

"  And  to-morrow  you'll  see  the  end,"  said  Aunt  Rachel.  "  I 
wouldn't  give  a  pinch  of  snuff  for  sleighing  like  that !  It  isn't 
worth  the  name." 

"  Wait  and  see,  Aunt  Rachel — wait  and  see !"  was  laughing- 
ly replied  to  the  old  lady's  expressions  of  incredulity. 

On  the  next  morning,  full  six  inches  of  snow  lay  upon  the 
ground,  and  white  flakes  were  still  whirling  about  in  the  air. 
By  daylight  the  sound  of  bells  was  heard,  and  by  the  time  the 
old  lady's  nephews  had  taken  breakfast  and  were  ready  to  go 
out,  Broadway  presented  a  pretty  lively  appearance. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Aunt  Rachel  ?"  said  one  and 
another,  as  the  sleighing  indications  became  more  and  more 
apparent. 

But  the  old  lady  said  nothing.  The  scene  that  was  present- 
ed rather  bewildered  than  impressed  her  mind  intelligibly.  The 
snow  was  still  falling  so  thickly  as  almost  to  obscure  the  air,  and 
15 


170  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

through  this  medium  she  saw  but  half  distinctly  the  rush  and 
whirl  of  life  below  her. 

About  twelve  o'clock  the  storm  cleared  off.  Occasionally,  up 
to  this  time,  Aunt  Rachel  had  taken  her  place  by  the  window, 
and  gazed  down  curiously  upon  the  ever-varying  scene.  Now 
a  wilder  sound  of  bells  attracted  her  ears,  and  she  looked  forth 
a^ain.  Aunt  Rachel  had  not  seen  New  York  before — that  is, 
New  York  fairly  awake  and  mad  with  excitement.  It  was  some 
time  ere  she  could  separate  things  so  as  to  view  them  distinctly, 
and  let  their  peculiar  features  become  impressed  on  her  mind. 
The  first  clearly  defined  object  was  a  magnificent  sleigh,  drawn 
by  sixteen  horses,  gorgeously  attired,  and  crowded  to  overflow- 
ing with  passengers,  at  sixpence  a  head,  on  their  way  down  to 
the  great  business  section  of  the  city  ;  and  sweeping  down  be- 
side this,  like  a  small  bird  passing  an  eagle,  was  a  petite,  swan- 
built  affair,  light  almost  as  a  feather,  and  drawn  by  a  blood 
horse  of  exquisite  symmetry,  whose  feet  seemed  scarcely  to  touch 
the  ground.  Close  behind  the  great  passenger  sleigh,  came  an 
establishment  contrasting  as  widely  as  possible  with  the  other 
two.  An  hour  before,  its  various  constituents  lay  quietly  repo- 
sing in  cellar,  yard  or  lumber-room,  as  innocent  of  excitement 
or  excess  as  a  toad  in  its  rocky  bed.  It  was  formed  of  two  rude 
poles  for  runners,  upon  which  had  been  nailed  an  old  crate.  To 
this  a  car-horse  had  been  attached,  and  off  down  Broadway 
dashed  its  owner,  keeping  pace  with  the  swiftest,  and  as  proud 
of  the  figure  he  cut  as  any.  Then  followed  a  less  ambitious 
party,  consisting  of  a  staid  citizen,  with  his  wife  and  two  daugh- 
ters, in  a  good  substantial  sleigh,  drawn  by  good  substantial 
horses,  whose  orderly  feelings  and  habits  were  not  to  be  destroy- 
ed even  by  the  contagious  madness  of  a  Broadway  sleighing 
season.  Darting  by  so  swiftly  as  to  leave  room  for  scarcely  a 
moment's  observation,  passed  a  gayer  party  of  laughing  girls ; 
and  close  beside  them,  lashing  his  piece  of  gaunt,  lean  horse- 
flesh, from  whose  neck  depended  an  old  cow  bell,  into  a  strange 
but  swift  gait,  came  an  Irishman,  with  his  car  body  already  on 
runners,  determined  not  to  be  beaten  by  any  thing  between 
Niblo's  and  the  Park.  Now  a  dozen  sleighs,  of  all  imaginable 
forms  and  in  the  strangest  contrast  with  each  other,  were  under 
the  old  lady's  eyes  ;  and  now  they  were  swept  away,  like  men 
on  a  chess-board  dashed  by  some  angry  hand  in  all  directions. 
In  the  next  instant,  in  some  newer  and  more  grotesquely  beauti- 


THE    SLEIGH    RIDE.  171 

fill  combination,  they  were  there  again.  It  was  like  a  great  ka- 
leidoscope, in  which  horses  and  sleighs  were  forever  blending  in 
new  forms. 

For  half  an  hour  Aunt  Rachel  looked  upon  this  exciting  spec- 
tacle. To  her  it  was  almost  like  enchantment.  She  had  heard 
of  fairyland,  and  there  were  moments  when  she  felt  that  she  was 
in  that  magic  region.  At  last,  exhausted  by  her  own  wonder, 
she  turned  away,  murmuring  in  a  low  voice — 

«  Well,  I  never !  The  like  o'  this  beats  all !  I  thought  I'd 
seen  sleighing  in  my  time !" 

No  one  could  have  been  more  completely  taken  by  surprise 
than  Aunt  Rachel.  She  had  seen  sleighing  in  her  time.  Of 
that  there  was  no  doubt.  She  had  seen  months  go  by  without  a 
sight  of  the  bare  ground,  and  had  been  familiar  with  the  jingle 
of  sleigh-bells  from  December  to  March  during  a  period  of  near- 
ly sixty  years.  Yes,  she  had  seen  sleighing  in  her  time,  and  the 
recollection  of  many  a  wild  frolic  was  fresh  in  her  memory — but 
she  had  seen  nothing  like  this.  Again  and  again  she  returned 
to  the  window,  to  look  and  wonder.  Every  instant  she  expected 
to  see  the  mad  animals  that  swept  along  with  race-horse  speed, 
dash  into  each  other,  or  looked  for  an  immense  omnibus  sleigh 
to  run  down  some  light  and  graceful  thing  that  seemed  as  if  it 
would  fall  to  pieces  by  its  own  weight.  But  no  such  catastrophe 
happened  under  her  eyes.  None  appeared  in  the  least  to  check 
the  wild  speed  at  which  they  were  going,  no  matter  how  closely 
they  came  together,  nor  how  thickly  the  street  was  crowded.  A 
few  lines  were  enough  for  the  passage,  and  a  miss  was  consid- 
ered as  good  as  a  mile.  Such  driving,  Aunt  Rachel  had  never 
beheld,  and  yet  it  was  not  to  be  denied  that  she  had  seen  good 
driving  in  her  time.  She  knew  that,  and  therefore  her  wonder 
was  the  greater. 

A  low  temperature  succeeding  to  the  fall  of  snow,  fixed,  for  a 
few  hours,  the  earth's  white  covering,  and  therefore,  steadily 
through  the  day  increased  the  wild  excitement  of  the  street, 
until,  beneath  the  wondering  eyes  of  Aunt  Rachel,  every  horse 
seemed  mad,  and  every  sleighing  party  a  company  of  bac- 
chanals. 

"  And  now  we  are  to  have  our  time,"  said  one  of  her 
nephews,  coming  in  as  the  day  began  to  fade.  "  The  sleigh 
will  be  at  the  door  by  seven  o'clock.  So  all  get  yourselves 
ready." 


172  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

Aunt  Rachel  demurred.  She  thought  she  was  a  little  too  old 
to  trust  herself  in  such  a  mad  scrape  as  a  New  York  sleigh- 
riding  party.  But  the  young  people  would  listen  to  no  objec- 
tions, and  pledged  themselves  to  be  responsible  for  all  damages. 
As  to  their  responsibility  on  the  score  of  damages,  the  old  lady 
did  not  feel  very  confident.  How  were  they  to  make  good  a 
broken  leg  or  neck  ?  But  their  hundred  times  repeated  assu- 
rances that  there  was  no  danger  in  the  world,  at  length  overruled 
all  opposition,  and  Aunt  Rachel  yielded  herself,  with  a  kind  of 
passive  necessity,  into  the  hands  of  her  young  relatives,  expect- 
ing nothing  less  than  to  be  the  subject  of  some  sad  catastrophe. 

Seven  o'clock  came,  and  punctual  to  the  hour  drove  up  be- 
fore the  door  an  immense  sleigh,  drawn  by  six  white  horses.  It 
was  already  filled,  apparently  to  overflowing,  with  as  wild  a 
party  of  lads  and  lasses  as  New  York  could  furnish  ;  but  there 
was  still  room  for  Aunt  Rachel  and  her  party,  who  crowded  in, 
and  after  sundry  adjustments  and  re -adjustments  of  the  whole 
body  of  inmates,  got  finally  settled  for  the  ride.  There  were  ex- 
actly twenty  in  all.  Three  loud  huzzas  were  then  given,  and 
off  down  Broadway  they  swept,  at  little  less  than  railroad  speed. 
The  moon  was  two  hour  high,  and  poured  down  upon  the  street 
a  flood  of  light,  making  every  thing  clear  as  day. 

While  Aunt  Rachel  looked  from  her  window,  a  cold  specta- 
tor of  the  scene  below,  her  mind  was  filled  with  wonder.  Often 
it  was  difficult  for  her  to  feel  that  it  was  indeed  a  reality,  and 
not  a  strange  illusion ;  but  now,  in  the  midst  of  the  excitement, 
her  feelings  rose  with  the  occasion,  and  she  not  only  felt  that  it 
was  real,  but  experienced  a  sensation  of  delight  as  she  swept 
along,  a  figure  in  the  great  living  panorama.  During  the  day, 
it  seemed  to  her  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  add  to  the  num- 
ber and  variety,  arabesque  and  grotesque,  of  sleighing  establish- 
ments that  filled  the  street,  without  collision,  and  a  consequent 
destruction  of  the  wonderful  concert  of  movement  that,  strangely 
enough,  distinguished  the  whole  scene  ;  but  now,  to  every  sleigh, 
at  least  three  had  been  added,  and  for  one  variety,  a  dozen  had 
taken  its  place.  The  average  speed  had  received,  also,  a  pro- 
portionate increase,  and  yet  the  harmony  of  the  whole,  if  it  may 
be  so  expressed,  remained  undisturbed.  The  little  one  horse 
fancy  affair,  that  looked  more  fitted  for  a  toy  shop  than  the  street, 
glided  past  the  ponderous  machine  drawn  by  six,  eight  or  ten 
horses,  a  touch  from  which  would  have  dissolved  it  like  so  much 


THE    SLEIGH    RIDE.  173 

frost-\vork,  and  passed  unharmed.  The  rudest  and  most  origi- 
nal contrivances  moved  along  side  by  side  with  the  most  costly 
and  elegant,  and  ever  and  anon  "  one  of  the  b'hoys'  came  dash- 
ing past  in  his  own  peculiar  way,  proud  of  the  thought  that  the 
snow  spray  from  his  horse's  hoofs  was  scattered  freely  over  the 
French  broadcloth,  furs  and  satins  of  the  now  unprivileged  "  Up- 
per Ten."  • 

Down  Broadway,  amid  this  enchanted  scene,  the  creation,  as 
it  were,  of  an  hour,  and  as  quickly  to  pass  away,  dashed  along 
the  party  of  Aunt  Rachel,  their  spirits  rising  every  moment. 
Their  destination  was  Jamaica,  and  their  purpose  as  mad  a 
frolic  as  could  well  be  executed  within  certain  wide  limits  of 
propriety.  It  seemed  as  if  half  the  Broadway  revelers  were  of 
the  same  mind,  to  judge  from  the  number  of  sleighs  that  crossed 
the  ferry  with  them,  and  went  jingling  through  quiet  Brooklyn. 
Once  out  upon  the  broad  smooth  road,  word  was  passed  to  the 
driver  to  let  nothing  go  by.  Aunt  Rachel  heard  the  order,  and 
it  warmed  into  life  something  of  the  spirit  of  her  younger  days. 
Like  most  people,  she  had  a  horror  of  racing,  except  when  her- 
self a  party  to  a  little  affair  of  the  kind,  and  then  she  had  no 
idea  of  being  beaten.  This  was  a  weakness  in  the  old  lady's 
character — but  she  was  human. 

Scarcely  had  the  word  been  given,  when  a  couple  of  bloods 
drove  up  beside  our  party  with  the  intention  of  going  by.  A 
shout  to  the  driver,  in  which  the  voice  of  Aunt  Rachel  was  heard 
distinctly — at  least  so  her  nieces  declare  to  this  day — warned 
him  of  the  movement.  Instantly  his  long  whip  cracked  like  a 
pistol  in  the  air,  and  speaking  to  his  team,  he  quickened  them 
into  a  gallop,  and  kept  side  by  side  with  the  single  fleet  horse 
of  the  city  blades.  For  a  mile  the  trial  of  speed  was  sustained 
without  much  advantage  to  either,  when  over  went  the  small 
sleigh,  and  ahead  swept  the  triumphant  party  like  an  arrow, 
shouting  and  laughing  until  the  air  was  filled  with  their  voices. 
They  had  no  time  to  stop  and  inquire  as  to  the  damages  that  had 
been  sustained.  At  least  fifty  sleighs  had  been  passed  during 
the  race,  and  to  the  inmates  of  any  of  these  that  were  hifmane 
enough,  was  left  the  task  of  binding  up  the  wounds  of  the  dis- 
comfited pair,  if  they  had  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  get  hurt  in 
their  sudden  catastrophe. 

A  merry  ride  of  four  or  five  miles  brought  them  to  a  tavern, 
before  which  they  all  alighted  to  get  "  something  warm,"  and  to 
15* 


174  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

see  what  was  to  be  seen.  The  sound  of  music  and  the  calling  of 
figures  from  within,  announced  that  a  party  had  possession  of 
the  ball-room.  To  this  scene  of  merriment  the  young  folks  re- 
paired, and  when  they  were  sought  by  the  rest  half  an  hour  af- 
terwards, were  found  whirling  in  the  dance  with  partners  never 
seen  before,  and,  in  all  probability,  never  to  be  met  again.  It 
took  another  half  hour  to  get  them  away,  and  then  off  they  went, 
more  boisterous  and  frolicsome  than  ever,  racing  with  every  thing 
on  the  road,  and  singing,  shouting  or  laughing  till  the  sleeping 
echoes  awoke,  just  as  fancy  or  impulse  directed. 

About  eleven  o'clock  they  drew  up  at  a  tavern,  twelve  miles 
from  the  city,  and  called  for  supper. 

"  Can't  get  it  ready  for  an  hour,"  said  the  landlord.  "  Three 
parties  have  ordered  supper  before  you." 

"  Can't  wait  that  long — must  have  it  now,"  returned  the  most 
eager  and  impulsive. 

"  Sorry,  indeed — but  first  come  first  served,  you  know." 

"  Whose  supper  is  this  you  are  serving  now  ?" 

"  It  is  for  the  company  in  the  ball  room — twenty  in  number.'- 

"  Our  mark,  exactly !  Now  landlord,  you're  a  clever  fellow 
— we  know  you  of  old — just  push  on  the  music  up  there,  while 
we  eat  the  turkeys  and  oysters,  and  there'll  be  five  dollars  added 
to  your  bill.  D'ye  understand  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  see  you  compre- 
hend clearly.  Set  all  hands  and  the  cook  by  the  ears  to  get 
another  supper,  and  no  one  will  ever  know  the  difference." 

Here  was  a  temptation  for  mine  host.  He  scratched  his  head . 
pouted  out  and  drew  in  his  lips,  rubbed  his  hands,  and  indulged 
in  sundry  other  little  movements  and  grimaces,  pertinent  to  the 
occasion,  all  of  which  finally  ended  with  all  intimation  that  if 
the  party  in  treaty  for  another  party's  supper  were  to  take  pos- 
session of  the  dining-room  and  eat  the  aforesaid  supper,  he 
couldn't  help  it ;  that  was  all. 

"  Oh,  no !  of  course  not — no  one  can  blame  you,"  replied  his 
young  tempters.  "  Only  see  that  the  fiddler  don't  get  tired  until 
we  are  fairly  at  work." 

So  the  dancing  was  permitted  to  go  on,  though  more  than  one 
of  those  engaged  in  the  pastime  wondered  if  supper  were  not 
soon  to  be  announced. 

Just  as  our  merry  friends  had  fairly  cleared  the  table,  down 
came  the  hungry  dancers,  impatient  of  long  delay.  As  they  en- 
tered the  dining-room  at  one  door,  Aunt  Rachel  and  her  party 


THE    SLEIGH    RIDE.  175 

retired  through  another,  and  hastily  paying  their  bill,  tumbled, 
pell-mell,  into  their  sleigh,  and  left  Boniface  to  settle  the  matter 
with  his  first  customers  as  best  he  could. 

The  return  to  the  city  was  in  every  way  as  full  of  riot  and  fun 
as  the  outward  journey.  It  was  two  o'clock  when  they  reached 
home,  all  safe  and  sound,  much  to  the  wonder  of  the  good  old 
lady  for  whose  more  particular  benefit  and  instruction  the  whole 
affair  was  gotten  up. 

It  was  past  nine  on  the  next  morning,  when  Aunt  Rachel, 
who  had  dreamed  of  nothing  all  night  but  sleighs  flying  in  every 
direction,  in  numbers  almost  equal  to  the  sands  on  the  sea-shore, 
came  down  from  her  chamber.  Almost  instinctively  she  went 
to  a  window  that  overlooked  the  street. 

'Bless  me  !"  she  exclaimed,  striking  her  hands  together. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Aunt  Rachel  ?"  inquired  one  of  her  young 
nieces,  coming  quickly  to  her  side. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  returned  the  old  lady,  retiring  from  the  win- 
dow, yet  looking  entirely  bewildered. 

"  Nothing?     Did  you  say  '  Bless  me  !'  for  nothing,  aunty  ?" 

"  No,  not  exactly  for  nothing,  child.     But — but ' 

"  But  what,  Aunt  Rachel  ?" 

There  was  a  silence  of  some  moments  before  Aunt  Rachel  re- 
plied— 

"  Oh,  nothing  much,  child — only  I  had  a  dream  last  night. 
And  it  was  so  much  like  reality  that  I  thought  it  true." 

"  A  dream  !     And  what  was  it  about,  aunty  ?" 

There  was  another  pause.     Aunt  Rachel  was  still  in  doubt. 

"  It  was  a  dream  of  a  sleigh  ride.  I  thought  there  had  been 
a  snow,  and  that  all-Broadway  was  alive,  as  by  magic.  It  was 
such  a  sight!" 

The  merry  girl  to  whom  this  was  said  laughed  aloud. 

"A  dream,"  said  she,  "  a  dream,  Aunt  Rachel?  Nothing 
more  than  a  dream  ?" 

"  What  else  could  it  have  been  ?     There  is  no  snow." 

"  But  there  has  been." 

Aunt  Rachel  shook  her  head  and  turned  again  to  the  window. 
It  was  raining  fast,  and  Broadway,  covered  from  curb  to  curb 
with  its  usual  depth  of  black  mud,  was  filled  with  omnibuses, 
cars,  cabs  and  chaises,  just  as  she  had  seen  it  every  day  since 
her  arrival  in  New  York.  Not  a  vestige  of  the  late  white  visit- 
ant could  be  seen  in  the  street  or  on  the  house-top. 


176  CHARIY    BEGINS    AT    HOME. 

"  Snow  ?     I  don't  see  a  spoonful !" 

"  But  it  lay  upon  the  ground  five  or  six  inches  deep  a  few 
hours  ago.  When  we  came  home  last  night  it  was  thawing  fast, 
and  now  it  is  almost  as  warm  as  summer  time.  A  heavy  rain 
has  done  the  rest." 

Still  Aunt  Rachel  was  bewildered,  and  unable  to  separate  the 
dreamy  from  the  real ;  and  to  this  day  there  are  times  when  hei 
mind  feels  the  impression  of  a  doubt.  Back  again  into  her  quiet 
home  she  has  gone,  with  the  recollection  of  her  New  York 
sleigh  ride  haunting  her  like  a  vision  from  fairyland ;  and  try  as 
she  will,  she  cannot  separate  what  she  really  saw,  from  what  her 
dreaming  imagination  pictured  in  the  few  hours  she  slept  on  the 
night  of  her  return  from  Long  Island. 


CHARITY   BEGINS    AT   HOME. 


Mrs.  Piersall  was  not  one  of  your  narrow-minded  people.  Her 
charity  never  staid  at  home,  but  was  ever  going  abroad  and  ex- 
tending itself  even  as  far  as  the  trackless  desert,  the  gloomy 
forest,  and  the  far-off  island  of  the  sea.  In  the  heathen  she  took 
especial  interest,  and  more  than  once  in  her  life  was  heard  to 
express  regret  that  her  good  husband,  instead  of  devoting  him- 
self to  business,  and  thus  providing  the  means  of  education  and 
support  for  a  large  family  of  children  with  which  his  benevo- 
lent wife  had  blessed  him,  had  not  been  more  piously  inclined ; 
in  fact,  had  not  been  a  missionary  to  the  Sandwich  Islands,  to 
the  Oregon  Indians,  or  to  one  of  the  delightful  Eastern  stations 
•where  the  "  spicy  breezes  blow  soft,"  etc.,  etc. 

Mrs.  Piersall  had  a  large  family  of  children,  as  has  just  been 
intimated, — no  less  than  five  sons  and  three  daughters ;  and  it 


CHARITY    BEGINS    AT    HOME.  177 

was  the  opinion  of  some  people,  who  had  happened  to  drop  in 
while  Mrs.  P.  was  abroad  on  some  benevolent  expedition,  that 
they  needed  a  missionary  about  as  badly  as  the  Hindoos  or  Hot- 
tentots. But  this  was  merely  a  private  opinion,  and  may  have 
been  the  dictate  of  some  particular  prejudice. 

One  day  Mrs.  Piersall  dropped  in  upon  a  lady  of  her  acquain- 
tance, a  member  of  the  same  church,  named  Mrs.  Clearfield. 

"  Not  very  busy,  I  hope,  this  morning,  Mrs.  Clearfield,"  said 
she. 

"  About  the  same  as  usual,"  replied  the  lady  addressed.  "  I 
always  have  as  much  as  I  can  attend  to." 

*'  Oh,  as  for  that  matter,  we  all  have  plenty  to  do ;  but  then 
we  must  spare  a  little  time  for  benevolent  purposes,  you  know. 
Now,  I  have  undertaken  to  raise  five  hundred  dollars  for  the  pur- 
pose of  paying  for  the  education  of  five  Indian  children  in  the 
Kickapoo  mission,  and  I  want  you  to  go  round  with  me  to-day 
for  the  purpose  of  presenting  the  subscription  paper.  To-morrow 

I  will  get  Mrs.  P to  go  \vith  me,  and  the  next  day,  Mrs. 

Q ,  and  the  next  day,  Mrs.  R ,  and  so  on,  until  the 

amount  is  raised.  You  see  I  am  willing  to  give  ten  days  to  one 
that  I  ask  of  you,  or  any  one  else.  So  put  on  your  things,  right 
quickly,  Mrs.  Clearfield,  and  let  us  begin  the  good  work." 

"  I  must  beg  to  be  excused,"  said  Mrs.  Clearfield,  with  a 
brief  smile,  that  died  away  into  a  grave  expression  of  face.  "  I 
have  ray  hands  full  with  my  own  young  Kickapoos.  It  is  as 
much,  and  a  little  more  than  I  can  do,  to  attend  to  their  educa- 
tion. My  doctrine  is  that  charity  begins  at  home." 

"  It  isn't  possible  that  you  act  from  such  narrow-minded 
views !"  returned  Mrs.  Piersall,  in  surprise.  "  Charity  begins  at 
home  !  Why,  that  is  the  very  doctrine  of  selfishness." 

"  Not  when  rightly  understood,"  was  quietly  replied. 

"  I  can  see  but  one  way  that  you  can  understand  it.  Doesn't 
our  minister  tell  us  that  a  man's  family  is  his  neighbor  in  the 
lowest  sense ;  that  his  country  is  his  neighbor  in  a  higher  sense, 
and  the  whole  world  his  neighbor  in  the  highest  sense  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have  often  heard  him  say  so." 

"  And  don't  you  believe  it  ?" 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  what  he  says  is  true,  when  rightly  un- 
derstood." 

"  That  *  rightly  understood '  of  yours,  Mrs.  Clearfield,  is  a 
very  convenient  way  you  have  of  getting  around  any  thing  you 


178  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

don't  happen  to  like  exactly.  Pardon  me  for  speaking  so  plain- 
ly !  But,  for  my  part,  I  can  only  understand  things  in  one  way 
—just  as  they  are  plainly  intended  to  be  understood.  But,  pray, 
how  do  you  understand  what  our  minister  says  about  the  neigh- 
bor ?" 

"  Simply,  that  we  are  to  regard  the  good  of  the  whole  more 
than  we  regard  the  good  of  any  particular  part,  as  a  nation,  a 
family,  or  an  individual." 

"  Exactly  !     That  is  just  as  I  understand  him." 

"  And  yet — pardon  me  for  speaking  so  plainly,  Mrs.  Piersall ! 
— and  yet,  for  the  sake  of  five  imaginary  Kickapoo  children, 
you  are  neglecting  eight  real  Christian  children,  who  have  been 
baptized  into  the  Christian  faith,  and  who  need  all,  and  more 
than  all  the  care  and  attention  you  can  possibly  bestow  upon 
them." 

"  Excuse  me  for  saying,"  returned  Mrs.  Piersall  to  this,  "that 
you  are  not  speaking  to  the  point.  I  wished  to  know  what  you 
understood  our  minister  to  mean  by  its  being  our  duty  to  regard 
the  whole  world  as  more  our  neighbor  than  a  part — as  the  whole 
world  more  than  a  nation,  and  nations  more  than  a  particular 
community — a  community  more  than  a  family,  and  a  family 
more  than  an  individual." 

"  As  to  the  main  proposition,"  replied  Mrs.  Clearfield,  "  I 
suppose  we  don't  differ  materially.  "Where  the  difference  lies, 
is  in  our  appreciation  of  the  means  to  be  used  in  attaining  the 
good  of  the  whole.  I  think  that  charity  begins  at  home,  in  the 
smallest  circle,  and  thence,  widening  gradually,  diffuses  its  bles- 
sings through  larger  and  still  larger  circles,  until  it  fills  the  whole 
earth ;  and  you  believe  that  it  is  our  duty  to  begin  at  the  cir- 
cumference, as  it  were,  and  to  work  inwardly  toward  the  smaller 
centres.  While  you  would  spend  your  time,  or  at  least  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  it,  in  gaining  the  means  of  education  for  a 
few  Kickapoo  children — of  whose  capabilities  to  receive  an  edu- 
cation, and  of  their  means  of  using  it  for  good  purposes  when  at- 
tained, you  know  nothing — I  deem  it  my  duty  to  devote  all  my 
time  and  energies  to  the  children  that  God  has  given  me,  in 
order  to  prepare  them  to  act  usefully  and  efficiently  in  the  larger 
spheres  to  which  they  will  be  called  as  men  and  women.  It  is 
thus  that  I  seek  the  good  of  the  whole.  From  the  little  circle 
of  home,  where  charity  first  began,  they  will  go  out  into  larger 
circles,  and  spread,  I  humbly  trust,  the  good  principles  I  now 


CHARITY    BEGINS    AT    HOME.  179 

seek  to  implant  in  their  minds  through  the  community  in  which? 
they  live — throughout  their  country,  and  I  would  fain  hope,  in 
some  degree,  throughout  the  world,  as  a  blessing  to  all  man- 
kind." 

"  And  neglect  entirely  the  heathen  who  are  perishing  for  want 
of  light  ?"  said  Mrs.  Piersall,  gravely  compressing  her  lips,  and 
assuming  a  look  of"  dignity  and  importance. 

"  As  to  their  perishing  for  want  of  light,"  returned  Mrs. 
Clearfield,  "  I  am  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  reasonableness  of 
what  Paul  has  said  in  regard  to  these  heathens,  or  Gentiles." 

"  What  is  that,  pray  ?" 

"  That  they  who  have  no  law  '  are  a  law  unto  themselves.' 
That  is,  if  any  one,  heathen  or  not,  does  right  according  to  the 
light  he  has,  he  will  be  saved." 

"  Without  the  Gospel,  all  must  be  lost !  Millions  of  heathen 
are  annually  dying  and  sinking  into  the  blackness  of  darkness 
forever,"  said  Mrs.  Piersall,  with  enthusiasm. 

"  And  yet  Paul  says,  returned  Mrs.  Clearfield — "  '  For  when 
the  Gentiles,  which  have  not  the  law,  do  by  nature  the  things 
contained  in  the  law,  those  having  not  the  law  are  a  law  unto 
themselves,'  and  throughout  the  whole  chapter,  where  he  thus 
speaks,  clearly  shows  that  if  the  Gentiles  do  what  is  right 
according  to  this  law,  written  upon  their  hearts,  they  will  be  ac- 
cepted." 

"  Then,  according  to  your  belief,  there  is  no  use  in  sending 
out  missionaries  to  the  heathen  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Piersall. 

"  Not  much,  I  fear,  while  the  worse  heathens  of  Christen- 
dom follow  so  quickly  in  the  footsteps  of  these  pious  men  and 
show  to  the  Gentiles  what  they  must  naturally  believe  to  be  the 
direful  and  corrupting  effects  of  the  new  doctrines  that  are 
preached  to  them.  It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  people  are  worse 
in  Christendom  than  in  heathen  lands.  My  own  belief  is,  that 
there  is  more  evil  of  a  soul-destroying  character  committed  in 
London  in  one  year,  than  in  Hindostan  in  ten  years.  And  that 
London,  Paris  and  New  York  stand  more  in  need  of  missionaries 
than  all  heathendom." 

"  I  don't  know  what  Mr.  Judson  and  Mr.  Parker  would  say 
if  they  were  to  hear  you  talk  in  this  manner,"  said  Mrs.  Pier- 
sall, raising  her  eyes  and  hands  in  astonishment. 

"  If  they  were  to  spend  as  much  time  in  some  parts  of  Chris- 
tendom as  they  have  spent  in  heathen  lands,  I  doubt  not  that 


180  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

they  would  fully  agree  with  me,  that  charity  begins  at  home," 
was  replied  to  this.  "  But  it  matters  not  what  they  may  or 
might  think.  I  must  act  according  to  the  light  I  have,  and  so 
must  they.  I  think  my  duty  is  at  home,  and  they  think  theirs 
is  abroad." 

"  And  I  fully  sympathize  with  those  noble-minded,  self-sacri- 
ficing men.  I  only  wish  that  my  husband  had  a  portion  of 
their  spirit.  I  would  soon  be  among  the  perishing  heathen,  as 
eager  as  any  to  pluck  them  as  brands  from  eternal  burning. 
But  I  must  not  waste  my  time  here.  I  have  given  myself 
ten  days  for  completing  my  subscription  of  five  hundred  dol- 
lars, and  I  must  be  up  and  doing.  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Clear- 
field  !  I  am  sorry  you  are  not  willing  to  share  in  so  excellent 
a  work." 

'  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Piersall !  I  am  sorry  you  cannot 
see  how  true  charity  always  begins  at  home,"  said  Mrs.  Clear- 
field. 

The  two  ladies  parted,  one  to  get  subscriptions  for  the  pur- 
pose of  educating  Kickapoo  children,  and  the  other  to  attend  to 
the  wants,  temporal,  intellectual,  moral  and  spiritual,  of  the  lit- 
tle ones  who  had  been  committed  to  her  care  by  Heaven. 

Mrs.  Clearfield  had  five  children.  Three  were  sons  and  two 
were  daughters.  To  these  she  directed  her  best  energies.  Her 
charity  to  the  world  she  believed  to  consist  in  rightly  training 
up  these  children,  and  sending  them  forth  with  sound  minds  in 
sound  bodies,  to  act  their  parts  as  men  and  women,  honestly, 
honorably  and  efficiently.  This,  according  to  her  view,  was  the 
true  way  for  her  to  regard  the  good  of  the  whole. 

"  It  is  but  little,"  she  would  sometimes  say,  "  that  I  could  do 
with  my  hands  and  mind  toward  regenerating  the  world,  if  I 
were  to  go  out  of  my  home ;  but  in  rightly  educating  my  chil- 
dren I  know  that  I  can  do  much,  for  their  influence,  when  they 
become  men  and  women,  will  be  five  times  greater  than  mine 
for  good — it  may  be  fifty  times  greater.  But  the  little  good  1 
might  do  would  be  sadly  counterbalanced  if,  through  any  ne- 
glect of  them  in  doing  it,  one  of  my  children  were  to  be  drawn 
off  into  evil  courses,  and  become  a  curse  instead  of  a  blessing  to 
the  world.  Others  may  do  as  they  like,  but  as  for  me,  my  charity 
to  the  world  is  in  doing  well  at  home." 

The  two  ladies  continued  to  act  as  they  had  begun.  Mrs. 
Piersall  was  foremost  in  ever}'  public  charity,  and  always  ready 


CHARITY    BEGINS    AT    HOME.  181 

to  leave  her  children  to  the  charge  of  servants,  or  to  take  care 
of  themselves,  that  she  might  do  all  in  her  power  for  the  salva- 
tion of  the  heathen,  who  were,  especially,  the  objects  of  her 
deepest  sympathy  ;  while  Mrs.  Clearfield  permitted  her  charity 
to  remain  at  home  in  act,  while  it  far  more  truly  regarded  the 
good  of  the  whole,  as  an  end. 

Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  Mrs.  Clearfield  shut  herself  up  at 
home,  like  a  hermit,  and  never  passed  into  the  social  circle,  for 
this  was  not  the  case.  But  when  she  did  go  abroad,  it  was  at 
times  when  she  could  withdraw,  briefly,  from  her  home  duties 
without  a  neglect  of  them.  In  the  social  circle,  as  in  her  fami- 
ly, her  charity  began  at  the  centre,  but  in  an  unselfish  and  ex- 
pansive spirit.  While  Mrs.  Piersall  talked  of  little  else  but  the 
great  "  world-movements,"  as  she  was  fond  of  calling  them, 
Mrs.  Clearfield  spoke  rather  of  the  daily  life-duties  that  came 
first  at  hand,  and  inspired  all  around  her  with  a  desire  to  engage 
diligently  in  their  performance. 

Year  after  year  went  by,  and  the  two  ladies  continued  to  act 
from  the  impulses  and  principles  that  governed  them  in  early  life. 
The  elder  of  Mrs.  Piersall's  five  sons  and  three  daughters  passed 
up  from  childhood,  through  youth,  and  attained  the  state  of 
men  and  women  ;  not,  however,  without  causing  both  their 
father  and  mother  sundry  heart-aches  and  many  sad  fore- 
bodings of  evil.  Left,  as  young  children,  a  large  part  of  their 
time  to  themselves,  their  active  impulses  unchecked  and  undi- 
rected to  good,  they  naturally,  in  the  pursuit  of  their  desires, 
constantly  interfered  with  each  other,  and  were  ever  jarring  and 
quarreling  among  themselves.  The  consequence  was,  that,  as 
they  grew  older,  they  sought  companions  away  from  home,  and 
estranged  themselves  from  each  other.  Too  much  interested  in 
providing  the  means  for  continuing  the  education  of  her  five 
young  Kickapoos,  who  were  actually  receiving  instruction  in  one 
of  the  Western  missions,  and  had  been  for  several  years,  Mrs. 
Piersall  found  little  time  and  less  inclination  to  see  after  the 
moral  training  of  her  children,  and  wisely  guard  them  from  evil 
in  their  perilous  entrance  upon  life.  From  her  delusive,  self-sa- 
tisfied and  vain  glorious  dream  she  was  at  length  awakened  by 
the  elopement  of  her  oldest  daughter  with  a  young  man  who  had 
been  in  the  city  but  a  few  months,  and  had  only  met  the  young 
girl  three  or  four  weeks  previous  to  the  time  of  her  running  away 
with  him.  The  worst  feature  of  the  case  was,  that  there  was  no 
16 


182  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

evidence  of  their  having  been  married.  From  that  time,  the 
Kickapoos,  Hindoos  and  Hottentots  were  all  forgotten,  but  her 
thoughts  and  interests  in  the  young  heathens  who  were  clustered 
around,  or  rather  now  turning  away  from  her  own  cheerless  fire- 
side, came  too  late.  The  yielding  twig,  that  might  once  have 
been  gently  inclined  to  good,  was  now  a  bent,  gnarled  and  in- 
flexible tree,  that,  if  moved  at  all  by  the  pressure  of  external 
influences,  came  back  instantly  and  firmly  to  its  fixed  position. 

The  great  desire  of  Mrs.  Piersall,  as  expressed  at  home  and 
abroad  for  hundreds  of  times,  was,  that  her  oldest  son,  Heber 
Piersall,  should  become  a  missionary  ;  and  it  was  one  of  her 
fond  imaginations  to  picture  him  surrounded  by  the  grateful  in- 
habitants of  some  spicy  Indian  island,  and  herself  there,  also,  to 
share  in  his  delightful  emotions.  Alas !  she  had  not  guarded 
vigilantly  the  fold  of  his  mind,  and  the  wolf  had  overleaped  the 
barriers  and  destroyed  the  innocent  lambs  that  drew  to  him,  in 
his  guileless  infancy,  loving,  angel-companions.  Alas !  alas ! 
Heber  Piersall  was  a  scoffer  at  religion,  and  a  vile  companion  of 
the  vile.  The  mother  had  rested  with  too  much  delight  in  plea- 
sant fancies,  to  think  of  the  means  to  be  used  for  the  attainment 
of  so  desirable  a  consummation  of  her  hopes. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-three,  this  young  man,  who  had  been 
out  twice  before  as  supercargo,  sailed  in  that  capacity  again, 
with  a  small  adventure  of  his  own  on  board.  The  voyage  was 
to  be  a  long  one.  The  cargo  was  assorted,  and  the  vessel  clear- 
ed for  Valparaiso,  "  and  a  market."  After  having  disposed  of 
this  cargo,  Piersall  was  directed  to  proceed  to  Canton  for  silks 
and  teas,  and  thence  to  return  home. 

Nearly  twelve  months  had  elapsed  since  the  sailing  of  the 
vessel,  during  which  time  the  family  had  received  two  brief  let- 
ters from  the  young  man,  one  from  Rio  de  Janeiro,  where  the 
vessel  touched,  and  the  other  at  Callao. 

One  afternoon,  about  this  time,  a  new  number  of  the  "  Mis- 
sionary Herald"  was  handed  in,  and  Mrs.  Piersall,  at  sight  of 
it,  could  not  resist  the  temptation  she  felt  to  lay  every  thing 
aside  for  the  perusal  of  its  pages.  The  first  thing  that  met  her 
eye  was  a  letter  from  one  of  the  missionaries  at  the  Sandwich 
Islands.  Into  this  she  dipped  immediately ;  but  she  had  only 
read  about  half  a  page  when  the  pamphlet  dropped  from  her 
hands,  and  she  bowed  her  head  until  it  rested  upon  the  table  by 
which  she  was  sitting,  at  the  same  time  that  a  moan  of  anguish 


CHARITY    BEGINS    AT    HOME.  183 

arose  from  her  bosom.  The  intelligence  that  produced  the  pain- 
ful effect  was  what  is  contained  in  the  following  paragraph,  a 
portion  of  the  letter  she  was  reading  : 

"  Our  influence  over  this  people  is  constantly  interfered  with 
by  the  vile,  dishonest  or  dishonorable  conduct  of  those  who 
come  here  from  Christian  nations  for  purposes  of  trade.  You 
are  aware  that,  through  our  efforts,  we  have  prevailed  upon  the 
King  to  prohibit  the  landing  or  selling  of  intoxicating  liquors 
upon  the  islands,  and  that  he  is  very  rigid  in  enforcing  his  de- 
cree. Notwithstanding  this,  however,  spirits  are  smuggled 
ashore  from  almost  every  ship  that  arrives — the  high  price  ob- 
tained for  a  small  quantity  being  a  great  temptation  to  those 
whose  lust  of  gain  would  lead  them,  if  all  law-penalties  were 
abolished,  to  commit  murder  for  its  gratification.  A  man  of  this 
class,  named  Heber  Piersall,  supercargo  on  board  the  American 
ship  Este,  attempted,  a  few  days  since,  to  land,  in  the  night, 
ten  casks  of  brandy  on,  it  is  said,  his  own  private  account ;  this 
liquid  poison  being  his  adventure  for  the  voyage.  Fortunately, 
the  base  effort  was  discovered  ;  the  brandy  seized,  and,  by  order 
of  the  King,  the  heads  dashed  out,  and  the  liquor  mingled  with 
the  briny  waters  of  the  ocean.  This  was  done  on  the  morning 
after  the  landing  was  effected,  and  full  in  sight  of  the  vessel  and 
her  exasperated  supercargo,  who,  it  is  said,  exhibited  the  most 
diabolical  yet  impotent  rage,  at  seeing  his  cherished  hopes  of 
great  gain  scattered  like  chaff  before  the  wind.  The  Este  sailed 
in  an  hour  afterward.  May  she  never  return,  unless  in  better 
hands !  As  for  the  young  man,  we  trust,  for  decency's  sake, 
that  he  will  at  least  change  his  name — (  Heber!'  How  can  the 
good  old  bishop  sleep  in  his  grave  ?" 

This  proved  to  Mrs.  Piersall  a  dreadful  blow,  and  one  from 
which  she  never  fully  recovered .  How  could  she  ?  But  over 
her  oldest  son's  evil  conduct,  and  the  sad  ruin  of  her  daughter, 
who  returned  in  a  few  months  from  the  time  when  she  left  home, 
after  being  abandoned  by  the  heartless  wretch  who  had  with- 
drawn her  from  virtue,  she  did  not  grieve  alone.  There  were 
six  other  children,  in  but  few  of  whom  she  found  any  thing  to 
give  her  pleasure.  She  had  neglected  them  so  long,  and  had 
suffered  weeds  to  spring  up  in  such  variety  and  luxuriance,  suf- 
focating all  the  good  products  of  their  mental  earth,  that  vain 
seemed  all  efforts  she  might  make  to  remove  what  was  evil,  and 
encourage  the  growth  of  good. 


184  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

Still,  some  good  resulted  from  the  many  and  earnest  attempts 
she  made  to  give  right  precepts  to  her  younger  children,  and  to 
guard  them  from  the  dangers  that  had  drawn  aside  from  a  love 
of  virtue  and  high  moral  principles  those  who  had  first  stepped 
forth,  in  freedom  and  maturity,  upon  the  world's  arena.  The 
great  grief  and  affliction  of  mind  which  the  conduct  of  the  oldest ' 
son  and  daughter  occasioned  to  Mrs.  Piersall,  softened  and  sub- 
dued her  whole  temper,  and  changed  her  manner  toward  her 
children  so  perceptibly  that  they  were  much  more  easily  influ- 
enced by  her  than  before ;  but  she  had  found  out,  too  late  in 
life,  that  true  charity  begins  at  home.  Though  she  could  still 
do  much  toward  correcting  the  evil  in  her  younger  children, 
and  leading  them  to  good,  she  found  so  many  bad  habits  con- 
firmed in  them,  that  she  often  despaired  of  any  result  from  her 
anxious  labors. 

While  Mrs.  Piersall  was  thus  reaping  the  bitter  fruits  of  her 
early  neglect  of  home  duties,  in  seeking  for  objects  of  charity 
abroad,  Mrs.  Clearfield  was  gathering  in  a  pleasant  harvest  of 
delight  in  seeing  her  children  rising  into  useful  and  honorable 
members  of  society.  Of  her  three  sons,  one  became  a  minister, 
eminent  for  his  inflexible  love  of  truth  and  virtue,  and  for  his 
earnest  devotion  to  the  best  interests  of  mankind.  The  other 
two  chose  mercantile  pursuits,  and,  as  merchants,  were  distin- 
guished for  the  strictest  integrity.  In  society  they  were  ever 
foremost  in  all  that  tended  to  elevate,  improve  and  humanize  the 
great  mass  of  the  people.  The  influence  of  these  three  men,  as 
they  advanced  in  years,  and  their  characters  Lecame  better 
known,  and  they  attained  more  weight  in  the  community,  was 
of  the  most  salutary  kind ;  they  were  universally  acknowledged 
to  be,  as  they  really  were,  public  benefactors  in  the  true  sense 
of  the  word. 

The  two  daughters  of  Mrs.  Clearfield,  on  attaining  the  age  of 
womanhood,  became  wives  who  could  appreciate  and  love  vir- 
tue. With  a  thankful  and  happy  spirit  did  she  yield  them  up, 
praying  that  they  might  be  loving  and  truthful  wives,  as  they 
had  ever  been  loving  and  truthful  children. 

As  one  after  another  of  Mrs.  Piersall's  children  attained  ma- 
ture age,  and  took  their  places  in  society,  they  gave  but  little 
promise  of  filling  their  spheres  in  life  to  any  very  good  purpose. 
They  were  exceedingly  selfish  and  narrow  in  their  views,  and 
not  one  of  them  had  any  kind  of  regard  for  religion,  although 


DYED    IN    THE    WOOL.  185 

their  mother  was  still  as  ardent  as  ever  in  all  things  pertaining 
to  the  church. 

Mrs.  Clearfield  still  remained  in  the  number  of  her  friends, 
and  truly  sympathized  with  her  in  her  grief  and  disappointment. 

"  Ah,  my  good  friend,"  said  Mrs.  Piersall  to  her  one  day, 
after  she  had  been  alluding  to  her  children,  "  I  can  now  see  that 
you  were  right  and  I  was  wrong — though,  alas !  I  see  it  too 
]ate — True  charity  must  begin  at  home." 


DIED   IN   THE   WOOL. 


An  acute  disciple  of  Blackstone,  in  one  of  our  Atlantic  cities 
that  shall  be  nameless,  had,  by  a  course  of  active  pettifogging, 
succeeded  in  filling  his  pockets.  Full  pockets  enabled  him  to 
assume  an  imposing  style  of  living,  and  the  reputation  of  having 
gotten  rich  by  practice  at  the  bar,  very  naturally  increased  the 
number  of  his  clients,  and  swelled  the  amount  of  his  fees. 
S soon  stood,  "A,  Number  One"  among  his  legal  breth- 
ren. 

If  any  one  had  a  pretty  hard  case  for  litigation,  S was 

his  man  ;  for  if  any  body  could  gain  it  for  him,  he  could.  He 
not  only  understood  all  the  quirks  and  turns  in  the  law,  but  was 
fertile  in  original  expedients.  The  goodness  or  badness  of  a 
cause  was  nothing  to  him ;  his  business  was  to  gain  it  for  his 
client  by  any  means  he  could  use,  fair  or  foul. 

At  the  age  of  forty-five,  from  some  cause  or  other,  not  clearly 

ascertained,  S became  religiously  disposed,  and  joined 

the  Church.     An  influential  man  like  him  was  not  long  suffered 
to  remain  inactive  in  the  secularities  of  the  Church.     At  the  first 
fitting  opportunity  he  was  made  a  vestryman. 
16* 


186  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

S had  always  been  looked  upon  in  the  community  as 

a  "  pretty  hard  case,"  and  the  reputation  by  no  means  belied  the 
truth.  The  gaining  of  one  like  him  over  to  the  cause  of  religion, 
was,  therefore,  a  source  of  no  little  congratulation  to  those  who 
rega'rded  things  spiritual — and  was  looked  upon  as  quite  a  tri- 
umph over  the  enemy  of  souls.  There  were  some,  however, 
who  shrugged  their  shoulders,  and  professed  to  have  just  about 
as  much  confidence  in  him  now  as  ever  they  had,  and  to  regard 
his  religion,  to  use  one  of  their  elegant  expressions,  as  "  all  in 
my  eye." 

Matters  professional  went  on  pretty  much  in  the  old  way. 

Religion,  in  the  eyes  of  S ,  was  too  sacred  a  thing  to 

bring  down  into  the  world,  where  it  must  suffer  violence,  and  be, 
in  consequence,  brought  into  disrepute.  He,  therefore,  kept  his 
religion  nicely  laid  up  in  lavender,  for  Sunday,  when  it  was 
brought  forth  unspotted  from  the  world. 

About  two  years  after  S joined  the  Church,  it  was 

thought  by  those  who  had  affairs  in  charge,  that  they  ought  to 
have  a  new  and  more  imposing  edifice  than  the  one  they  wor- 
shipped in,  which  was,  to  say  the  truth,  rather  an  ancient  affair, 
and  by  no  means  such  as  the  wealth  of  the  congregation  enti- 
tled them  to  have.  S was  prominent  in  the  matter — in 

fact,  he  was  the  prime  mover,  and  headed  a  subscription  list 
with  a  thousand  dollars. 

In  due  time  the  Church  was  finished,  and  an  elegant  edifice  it 
was.  When  the  building  was  projected  and  plans  called  for, 
sixty  thousand  dollars  was  to  be  the  maximum  of  cost.  But  the 
building  committee  and  the  architect  managed  to  run  the  cost 
up  to  a  hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  the  Church  in  debt  about 
seventy  thousand.  This  caused  all  concerned  to  feel,  as  might 
be  supposed,  rather  serious  on  the  subject.  A  debt  of  seventy 
thousand  dollars  was  rather  a  grave  affair,  viewed  in  any  light. 

The  first  thing  to  be  done  was  to  have  a  sale  of  the  pews. 
This  proceeded  rather  slowly,  and  the  prices  at  which  they  sold 
were  by  no  means  as  large  as  had  been  anticipated.  From  this 
source  only  twenty  thousand  dollars  came.  An  extra  subscrip- 
tion was  then  tried,  but  only  ten  thousand  dollars  could  be 
raised. 

In  this  aspect  of  affairs,  S ,  who  was  chairman  of 

the  building  committee,  and  to  whom  was  mainly  chargeable 
the  excess  of  cost  over  the  first  estimate  made  for  the  Church, 


DYED    IN   THE    WOOL.  187 

felt  called  upon  to  devise  some  means  of  liquidating  the  heavy 
debt. 

"  It  could  be  done  easily  enough,  if  those  who  are  able  would 
come  forward  and  buy  pews  at  fair  prices,  instead  of  renting 
them,"  he  said  to  a  fellow  vestryman. 

It  was  freely  admitted  that  this  would  certainly  change  the 
aspect  of  affairs.  But,  if  members  preferred  renting  to  buying, 
nothing  could  be  done. 

"  They  ought  to  be  made  to  buy,"  said  S ,  warmly. 

"  There  is  Preston,  worth  thirty  or  forty  thousand  dollars  at  least, 
who,  instead  of  paying  a  couple  of  thousand  dollars  for  the  pew 
his  family  occupies,  is  very  well  content  to  get  it  at  a  yearly 
rent  of  a  hundred  dollars.  It  is  too  bad  !  I  would  not  give 
much  for  his  interest  in  religion,  if  he  have  no  better  way  of 
showing  it." 

"  He  certainly  ought  to  buy,"  was  unhesitatingly  replied. 

"He  shall  buy!"  said  S ,  snapping  his  fingers,  as  a 

sudden  thought  struck  him. 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  make  him  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  How  ?     What  means  will  you  use  ?" 

"  Never  mind  about  that.  But,  mark  my  words  for  it,  next 
Sunday,  Preston  will  be  the  owner  instead  of  the  mere  tenant  of 
his  pew." 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  You  shall  not  hope  in  vain."  » 

The  lawyer  went  to  his  office  and  sat  down  to  think.  After 
about  half  an  hour's  cogitation,  he  said,  aloud, 

"  Yes,  he's  the  man." 

And  immediately  writing  a  note,  despatched  it  by  his  office 
messenger.  In  twenty  minutes  a  well  dressed  man  entered,  and 
bowed  to  the  lawyer  with  a  respectful,  or  rather,  deferential 
air. 

"  Take  a  chair,  Jones — I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  said  S . 

The  man  seated  himself. 

"You  know  we've  managed  to  get  confoundedly  in  debt  with 
our  new  Church." 

"  Yes  ;  so  it  seems,"  was  the  assenting  reply. 

"  And  some  how  or  other,  we  must  manage  to  get  out  of 
debt." 

"  If  we  can." 


188  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

"  Well,  I  think  we  can,  if  the  thing  is  done  rightly.  I  be- 
lieve I  have  hit  upon  the  mode." 

"Ah!  Well,  you  are  fortunate.  Nobody  else  could  have 
done  it." 

"  So  I  flatter  myself.  But  my  trade  makes  me  a  little  sharp- 
er than  common  people,  you  know.  There  are  too  many  pews 
rented.  If  all  who  are  able  to  buy  would  purchase  instead  of 
renting,  the  debt  would  be  paid  off  in  a  week." 

"No  doubt  of  that."' 

"  Very  well.  That  is  admitted.  Now  my  plan  is  to  make 
them  buy." 

"  If  you  can." 

"  And  I  can,  with  a  good  fellow  like  you  to  aid  me.  And  I 
think  your  affection  for  the  Church  is  strong  enough  to  induce  you 
to  lend  a  willing  hand  to  the  work.  Debt  is  a  terrible  thing." 

"  Indeed  it  is?     But  how  can  I  aid  ?" 

"  Are  you  willing  ?" 

"  Oh,  certainly." 

"  Very  well.  Then,  without  any  body's  knowing  what  we 
are  about,  or  suspecting  any  concert  between  us,  we  can  make 
some  forty  or  fifty  pew  renters  become  purchasers,  and  thus  pay 
the  whole  debt." 

"  How  ?     How  ?     I  am  curious  to  know  that." 

"  Very  well,  I  will  inform  you.  There  is  Preston,  to  begin 
with.  His  pew  is  a  very  eligible  one,  and  if  he  gives  it  up,  he 
can't  possibly  get  another  without  going  far  down  the  aisle ;  for 
every  good  pew  in  the  church  is  either  rented  or  sold.  Now, 
his  pew  is  worth  at  least  two  thousand  dollars." 

"  Yes,  and  he  ought  to  pay  that  for  it.     He  is  able  enough." 

"  So  I  think.  Very  well,  Now  I  will  place  two  thousand 
dollars  in  your  hands,  and  do  you  go  to  the  Treasurer,  who 
has  charge  of  the  matter,  and  offer  to  buy  the  pew,  saying  that 
you  are  ready  to  pay  that  price  down  for  it,  cash.  He  will,  of 
course,  tell  you  that  he  must  see  Preston  first,  and  give  him  the 
option  of  buying  it.  And  Preston,  rather  than  let  you  have  the 
pew,  will  buy.  D'ye  see  ?" 

"  Capital !     It's  the  very  thing !" 

"Isn't  it?" 

"  If  you  ain't  a  lawyer,  dyed  in  the  wool,  there's  no  mis- 
take," said  the  man,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  and  giving  vent 
to  a  hearty  burst  of  laughter. 


t 

DYED    IN    THE    WOOL.  189 

••  I  consider  myself  hard  to  beat  in  any  thing,"  returned 
S •  "  But  will  you  join  me  in  the  matter  ?" 

u  Certainly.  I'm  ready  to  serve  the  Church  in  any  way  that 
a  humble  individual  like  myself  can  do  it." 

On  the  next  Sabbath,  Preston  sat  in  his  own  pew,  sure 
enough ;  and  the  treasury  of  the  Church  was  in  a  better  condi- 
tion by  just  the  sum  of  two  thousand  dollars.  S was  de- 
lighted at  the  success  of  his  scheme,  and  tried  it  on  two  other 
pew  renters,  who  were  entire  strangers  to  each  other,  during 
the  week,  and  with  the  desired  result.  Jones  got  some  private 
abuse  for  his  part  of  the  business,  and  was  told  that  he  had 
better  pay  his  honest  debts  before  he  undertook  to  buy  a  high- 
priced  pew ;  but  he  put  it  all  quietly  in  his  pocket  and  went 
ahead. 

"  You  are  determined  to  have  somebody's  pew,  I  see,  re- 
marked the  Treasurer,  when  Jones  appeared  the  fourth  time. 

"  I  wish  a  good  pew,  and  am  willing  to  pay  a  good  price  for 
it,"  he  replied.  "  I  don't  covet  any  body's  pew.  But  I  believe 
no  one  has  a  right  to  the  property  he  merely  rents." 

"  Oh,  no.  You  have  a  right  to  purchase  any  unsold  pew  in 
the  Church." 

"  So  I  supposed." 

But  Jones  didn't  get  the  pew  for  which  he  had  offered  a  lib- 
eral price.  The  occupant  preferred  the  alternative  of  buying  to 
being  turned  out. 

And  thus  the  thing  went  quietly  on,  no  one  suspecting  the 
agency  at  work,  until  pews  enough  were  actually  sold  to  pay  off 
the  forty  thousand  dollars  debt  that  had  remained  after  the  first 
sale  of  pews  and  subsequent  extra  subscription. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  I  would  make  Preston  buy  his  pew  ?" 

said  S to  the  vestryman  to  whom  he  had  first  hinted  his 

intention  of  putting  some  unknown  scheme  into  operation. 

"  Yes.  But  who  made  thirty  or  forty  others  buy  pews  ?  Pres- 
ton's case  is  but  a  drop  in  the  bucket." 

«  I  did." 

»«You?" 
"  Certainly  I  did.     The  Church  owes  me  a  service  of  plate  for 
paying  off  its  debt,  and  I  believe  I  will  claim  it." 

"  And  you  are  entitled  to  it,  if  the  thing  has  been  done 
fairly." 

"'You  shall  judge  of  that  yourself." 


190  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

And  S ,  whose  notions  of  right  and  wrong  were  found- 
ed upon  rather  extraordinary  models,  related  the  trick  he  had 
played  upon  the  pew  renters,  and  ended  by  saying — 

"  Now,  wasn't  that  capital  ?" 

"  I  believe  what  people  say  of  you  is  correct,"  returned  the 
vestryman,  with  unexpected  sobriety. 

"  And  what  is  that,  pray  ?" 

"  Why,  that  you  are  a  lawyer  dyed  in  the  wool,  and  proof 
against  all  spiritual  bleaching  salts. — Good  morning!" 

S was  profoundly  astonished  for  the  moment.  But  he 

shrugged  his  shoulders  and  muttered  to  himself — 

"  Nettled  because  his  dull  brains  were  not  bright  enough  for 
such  a  scheme." 

That  there  was  a  stir  in  the  Church  when  it  became  known 
what  work  the  lawyer  had  been  engaged  in,  may  well  be  sup- 
posed. Some  were  angry,  some  laughed  at  the  trick,  but  all 
were  more  or  less  satisfied  with  being  out  of  debt.  The  repu- 
tation of  S ,  as  a  professional  man,  did  not  suffer  ;  though 

we  believe,  on  the  score  of  his  piety,  there  were  some  doubts 
entertained  in  the  minds  of  a  few,  who  considered  him  a  lawyer 
dyed  in  the  wool,  and  therefore  a  hopeless  case. 


THE  PIC-NIC;   OR  THE   YOUNG 

LADY    WHO    WAS    NOT    PUNCTUAL. 


11 1  will  call  at  eight  o'clock  precisely,"  said  a  young  man, 
as  he  stood  in  the  door  of  a  house  in  Spruce  street,  \vith  the 
hand  of  a  gentle  girl  in  his.  He  had  taken  it  as  he  said  "  good- 
bye," and  held  it  longer  than  usual. 

"  Very  well,  I  shall  be  all  ready,"  returned  the  maiden. 

"  The  cars  start  at  a  quarter  past  eight,  precisely. — We  must 
not  leave  here  a  minute  later  than  eight  o'clock." 

"  Not  if  we  expect  to  join  the  party  at 's  Grove." 

"  Good  night,  Anna." 

"  Good  night." 

As  the  maiden  responded  to  her  lover's  good  night,  her  hand 
that  lay  in  his,  was  gently  pressed.  That  pressure  sent  a  thrill 
of  joy  to  her  heart.  Henry  Alton  had  not  yet  openly  declared 
his  love  for  Anna  Milnor,  but  little  tokens  of  its  existence  were 
not  wanting.  Anna  had  few  doubts  or  fears  on  this  subject. 
She  felt  for  him  a  deep  tenderness,  and  questioned  not  the  fact 
of  its  return. 

On  the  next  morning  Alton  was  at  the  house  precisely  as  the 
clock  struck  eight.  He  asked  for  Anna. — The  servant  went  up 
stairs,  and  returned,  saying  that  she  would  be  ready  in  a  mo- 
ment. One,  two,  three,  four,  five  minutes  passed,  and  she  did 
not  appear.  The  young  man,  who  was  thoroughly  punctual  in 
every  thing,  bath  from  principle  and  habit,  became  impatient. 
The  cars  left  the  depot  at  a  quarter  past  eight  o'clock,  precisely, 
and  it  would  take  at  least  five  minutes  to  walk  there. 

It  was  seven  minutes  past  eight,  when  Anna  at  length  made 
her  appearance. 

"  I  am  really  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,  Mr.  Alton," 

191 


192  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

said  she.     "  But  I  couldn't  help  it.     We  have  plenty  of  time  to 
get  to  the  cars,  I  hope." 

"  As  much  as  the  bargain,"  returned  the  young  man.  "  It  is 
now  seven  minutes  past  eight." 

"  Oh !  there !  I  have  forgotten  my  parasol.  I  will  get  it  in  a 
moment."  And  away  sprung  Anna.  In  about  a  minute  her  lit- 
tle feet  were  heard  pattering  down  the  stairs. 

"  I'm  ready  now,"  said  she,  when  half  way  down.  "  No !  I 
declare  !  I've  dropped  o;ie  of  my  gloves  in  my  chamber."  And 
back  she  turned. 

Very  punctual  men  are  usually  impatient  of  delay. 

"  Too  bad  !"  muttered  Alton.  "  We  shall  be  left  as  sure  as 
the  world.  Why  will  people  be  so  thoughtless  ?" 

Just  at  ten  minutes  past  eight  o'clock  they  left  the  house.  To 
reach  the  depot  in  time  would  require  rapid  walking.  Of  course 
Mr.  Alton  would  have  to  appear  in  a  hurry  in  the  street  with  a 
young  lady  by  his  side,  a  thing  that  annoyed  him  excessive- 
ly. But  there  was  no  alternative.  They  proceeded  at  a  quick 
step,  in  silence.  The  bell  was  ringing  as  they  entered  the  car 
yard. 

"  One  moment,  driver,"  said  Mr.  Alton,  hurriedly,  as  he 
passed  that  individual,  who  was  just  in  the  act  of  speaking  to 
the  horses. 

"  Be  quick  then,"  returned  the  driver,  impatiently, — mutter- 
ing something  in  addition  about  certain  kind  of  people  always 
coming  at  the  last  minute,  which  Alton  only  half  heard. 

The  excitement  and  hurry  of  the  two  young  people  caused 
several  thoughtless  persons  a  good  deal  of  merriment,  which  was 
rather  loudly  expressed.  Alton's  cheek  burned,  and  his  lip 
quivered,  when  he  seated  himself  with  Anna  on  the  sunny  side 
of  the  car.  The  moment  he  set  his  foot  on  the  platform,  the  cars 
commenced  moving. 

"  Like  to  have  been  left,  Alton !  Why,  what  in  the  world 
made  you  so  late  ?"  said  a  young  man,  one  of  the  pleasure  party 

that  was  going  out  on  a  pic-nic  to Grove.     "  We've  all 

been  here  for  at  least  ten  minutes." 

"  It  was  all  my  fault,"  spoke  up  Anna,  whose  face  was  glow- 
ing from  excitement  and  rapid  walking.  "  I  had  no  idea  that 
the  morning  was  passing  away  so  swiftly.  I  might  have  been 
ready  in  good  time,  but  did'nt  think  eight  o'clock  came  so 


THE    PIC-NIC.  193 

Alton  said  nothing.  He  was  \vorried,  and  didn't  care  to  let 
his  tone  of  voice  reflect  his  feelings. 

In  a  little  while  they  were  gliding  rapidly  away  from  the 
crowded  city.  The  puffing  locomotive  was  soon  substituted  for 
horses.  Half  an  hour  more,  and  the  gay  party,  consisting  of 
about  forty  young  ladies  and  gentlemen,  left  the  cars,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  a  fine  grove,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  track 
of  the  railroad,  where  they  proposed  to  spend  the  day. 

Pleasant  company  and  a  pleasant  ride  dispelled  from  the  mind 
of  Alton  the  effect  produced  by  Anna  Milnor's  want  of  punc- 
tuality. The  excitement  attendant  upon  starting  had  given  an 
unusual  brightness  to  her  countenance,  and  quickened  her  flow 
of  spirits.  She  was  the  life  of  the  company.  Every  time  the 
young  man's  eyes  rested  upon  her  through  the  day,  it  was  in 
admiration,  and  every  time  her  tones  reached  his  ear,  they  came 
with  a  sweeter  music  than  before. 

"  She  is,  indeed,  a  lovely  creature !"  he  more  than  once  said 
to  himself.  The  impression  made  by  the  unpleasant  occurrence 
in  the  morning  had  worn  off,  so  charmed  was  he  by  all  that  An- 
na said  and  did  through  the  day. 

Time  wore  on,  and  the  sun  ranged  low  in  the  horrizon.  The 
cars  were  to  go  by  at  about  half-past  six  o'clock,  when  the  party 
must  be  at  the  stopping  place,  or  have  the  pleasure  of  walking 
home,  a  distance  of  nearly  ten  miles.  About  half-past  five,  no- 
tice was  given  by  some  of  the  more  thoughtful  ones,  that  it  was 
time  to  be  making  preparations  for  leaving  the  ground. 

"  Oh,  it's  plenty  of  time  yet,"  said  some.  "  It's  only  a  little 
step  over  to  the  railroad." 

"  But  it  will  take  at  least  half  an  hour  to  make  all  our  ar- 
rangements for  getting  away,"  was'replied. — "  Better  be  an  hour 
too  soon  than  a  minute  too  late  for  the  cars." 

"  So  say  I,"  chimed  in  Alton  and  some  others,  who  took  upon 
themselves  the  task  of  getting  every  thing,  as  fast  as  they  could, 
in  readiness  to  leave  the  ground. 

"  There's  plenty  of  time,"  said  Anna  Milnor  gaily  to  Alton. 
"  Come  !  you  must  be  my  partner  in  this  cotillon." 

"  I  should'nt  like  to  walk  ten  miles  to-night,"  was  his 
reply. 

"  Nor  I.  But  there's  time  enough.  We  can  walk  to  the 
railroad  in  ten  minutes." 

Alton  could  not  refuse  Anna's  request,  and  so  he  joined, 
17 


194  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

though  reluctantly,  the  cotillon.  Time  sped  quickly.  When  the 
music  ceased  it  was  six  o'clock. 

All  was  now  hurry  and  bustle  among  the  greater  part  of  the 
company.  But  Anna  still  insisted  that  there  was  plenty  of  time, 
and  actually  induced  a  small  number  to  commence  another  co- 
tillon. Several  remonstrated,  and  urged  the  necessity  of  im- 
mediate departure.  But  they  were  only  laughed  at  for  their  im- 
patience. Alton  bit  his  lip  with  vexation  at  such  thoughtless- 
ness. He  saw  that  Anna  was  the  ruling  spirit  in  this  opposition 
to  the  prudent  desire  of  the  majority  to  be  at  the  stopping-place 
of  the  cars  in  good  time  ;  and  this  worried  him.  It  brought  too 
vividly  before  his  mind  the  incidents  of  the  morning. 

At  last,  even  she  felt  that  the  time  had  come  for  making  a 
speedy  departure.  The  little  group  that  had  been  seemingly 
governed  by  her,  separated,  and  commenced  hasty  preparations 
for  leaving  the  spot.  This  took  longer  than  had  been  anticipa- 
ted Last  of  all  to  get  away  was  Anna  Milnor.  By  the  time 
she  left,  some  had  nearly  reached  the  track  of  the  railroad. 

"  There  !  as  I  live,"  she  exclaimed,  after  she  had  started  with 
Alton,  and  had  gone  a  couple  of  hundred  yards,  "  I  have  lost  my 
bracelet!" 

As  she  said  this,  she  turned  and  ran  back  at  full  speed.  Al- 
ton called  after  her  that  they  would  certainly  be  left  behind  by  the 
cars.  But  she  did  not  heed  him.  His  only  alternative  was  to 
run  back,  also,  and  help  her  to  search  for  her  bracelet. 

"  I've  got  it !"  she  cried,  in  a  moment  after  reaching  the 
ground,  and  then  came  bounding  back  to  meet  her  vexed  and 
excited  lover. 

"  We  shall  certainly  be  left  behind,"  he  said. 

"Come,  run  then,  quick,"* Anna  returned,  and  sprung  away 
like  a  young  fawn.  There  was  not  a  single  member  of  the  party 
in  sight.  All  had  hastened  on  to  the  stopping-place  of  the  cars,  the 
most  indifferent  now  feeling  alarm  lest  they  should  be  too  late. 

"  It  is  nearly  half-past  six,"  Alton  remarked,  glancing  at  his 
watch,  as  he  came  up  to  the  side  of  the  hurrying  maiden. 

"  We'll  soon  be  there,"  was  her  encouraging  reply. 

"  There's  not  a  moment  to  spare.  Hah  ! — the  engine  bell,  as 
sure  as  I'm  alive  !  We  are  too  late  !" 

"  Perhaps  not.  Some  of  the  party  are  there,  and  the  conduc- 
tor will  certainly  wait  for  us." 

The  rest  of  the  distance  was  traversed  with  swift  feet,  and 


THE    PIC-NIC.  195 

in  silence.  Fortunately,  they  reached  the  stopping-place  just  in 
time  to  get  into  the  cars,  but  excited,  over-heated,  and  panting 
from  exertion. 

"  Just  saved  your  distance,"  said  the  conductor,  smiling. 

"  My  shawl !  where  is  it  ?"  exclaimed  one  of  the  ladies  of 
the  party,  looking  around  her  in  alarm,  soon  after  the  cars  were 
in  motion. 

"  I  don't  knowr,     Have  you  lost  it  ?"  asked  a  companion. 

"  It  was  on  my  arm  when  we  started.  But  I  was  so  afraid 
of  being  left  behind  that  I  didn't  notice  where  or  when  I 
dropped  it." 

Quietly  seated  in  the  cars,  all  had  leisure  now  to  think  wheth- 
er they  had  lost  or  left  any  thing  behind.  It  was  soon  discov- 
ered that  one  was  short  of  a  handkerchief,  another  of  a  bag,  a 
third  of  a  collar,  and  a  fourth  of  a  bracelet,  and  so  on.  But  for 
these  losses  there  was  no  remedy.  Every  moment  the  swift- 
speeding  engine  was  bearing  them  farther  and  farther  away  from 
the  spot  where  they  had  spent  the  day  so  pleasantly. 

"  Well,"  remarked  Alton,  in  a  half-laughing,  half-serious 
voice,  "  I  hope  this  will  be  a  lesson  on  punctuality  for  all  of  us. 
If  we  had  quietly  made  our  arrangements  for  leaving  the  ground 
an  hour  ago,  there  would  have  been  none  of  these  losses  to  re- 
gret. We  should  have  been  at  the  railroad  track  at  least  half 
an  hour  before  the  cars  came  along,  so  that  there  would  have 
been  time  enough  to  have  returned  for  any  thing  then  missing." 

"  You  needn't  say  any  thing,"  spoke  up  one,  "  you  were  the 
last  to  reach  the  cars,  both  coming  and  going.  A  lecturer  on 
punctuality  should  be  punctual  himself." 

"  This  was  said  jestingly,  but  it  touched  Alton  in  a  tender 
place. 

"  No — no — it's  not  fair  to  blame  him,"  Anna  spoke  up.  "  It 
was  all  my  fault." 

"  I  wish  it  hadn't  been,"  was  Alton's  mental  reply. 

When  he  retired  to  bed  that  night,  the  young  man  did  not 
feel  happy.  His  mind  was  disturbed.  Wrhy  ?  He  knew  of 
only  one  cause.  Anna  Milnor's  conduct  had  not  pleased  him. 
There  was  a  defect  in  her  character,  with  which,  let  it  exist 
where  it  would,  he  had  no  kind  of  patience.  It  was  so  easy  to 
be  punctual,  and  so  wrong  not  to  be  particular  on  this  head,  that 
he  could  find  no  excuse  for  it,  even  in  the  girl  he  loved. 

It  was  a  week  before  Alton  could  feel  just  in  the  frame  of 


196  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

mind  to  visit  Anna  Milnor.  Five  minutes  passed  in  her  presence 
was  sufficient  to  dispel  all  unpleasant  impressions  that  her  con- 
duct had  produced. — There  was  a  charm  in  her  person,  mind 
and  manners,  that  thoroughly  captivated  him.  He  was  again 
a  constant  visitor. 

As  for  Anna,  she  waited  only  a  declaration  from  her  lover. 
Her  heart  was  fully  his.  But  he  was  not  quite  ready  to  make 
that  declaration.  Alton  had  a  cool  head  as  well  as  a  warm 
heart.  He  was  orderly  in  his  habits,  and  regulated  his  conduct 
in  life  upon  fixed  principles.  In  choosing  a  wife  he  would  not 
permit  himself  to  be  governed  entirely  by  his  feelings.  He  saw 
that  Anna  had  defects  of  character — and  one  defect  that,  in  his 
estimation,  would  have  a  very  important  bearing  upon  his  future 
happiness.  Before  advancing  a  step  farther  he  determined  to 
see  how  deeply  seated  this  defect  lay,  and  whether  there  was 
any  hope  of  its  being  corrected. 

"  I  will  call  for  you  next  Sunday  morning,"  said  he  to  her 
one  clay,  "  and  walk  with  you  to  church." 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  have  your  company,"  was  the 
reply. 

"I  will  now  see,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  how  deeply  seated 
lies  this  want  of  punctuality .  Surely,  she  will  regard  the  order- 
ly observance  of  external  worship  too  highly  to  permit  herself  to 
be  a  moment  too  late. — Anna  Milnor  could  not  be  guilty  of  dis- 
turbing a  worshipping  assembly  by  entering  church  after  the 
services  have  begun." 

Half-past  ten  was  the  hour  for  service  to  commence. 

"  Do,  Anna,"  said  Mrs.  Milnor,  as  the  family  arose  from  the 
breakfast-table  on  the  next  Sabbath  morning,  "  try  and  get 
ready  in  time  to  go  with  your  father  and  myself  to  church.  I 
am  really  tried  at  your  want  of  punctuality  in  this  matter." 

"  Oh,  never  fear,"  returned  the  daughter,  "  I  shall  be  ready. 
There  is  plenty  of  time." 

"  So  you  always  say.     Go,  and  begin  to  dress  now." 

"  Dress  now  !  Why  it's  only  eight  o'clock.  I  can  get  ready 
in  half  an  hour  at  farthest.  You  won't  start  before  ten." 

Saying  this,  Anna  took  her  little  brother  in  her  arms  and  com- 
menced sporting  with  him.  An  hour  after,  Mrs.  Milnor  heard 
her  voice  in  the  parlor. 

"  Anna,  dear,  do  begin  to  dress  for  church,"  she  called  down 
to  her. 


THE   PIC-NIC.  197 

"  It's  only  nine  o'clock,  mother.  There  is  plenty  of  time. 
I'll  be  ready  as  soon  as  you  are." 

"  I  declare,  it's  half  past  nine  o'clock,  and  that  thoughtless 
girl  hasn't  gone  up  to  her  chamber  yet,"  the  mother  said,  as  she 
heard  the  clock  strike  the  half  hour. — "  Anna,  do  go  up  and 
dress  yourself.  I  am  out  of  all  patience  with  you." 

"  I'll  be  ready  now,  before  you  will,"  the  daughter  replied,  as 
she  bounded  up  stairs.  A  new  dress  had  come  on  the  evening 
before.  It  was  not  to  be  worn  that  day.  But  as  she  had  not 
yet  tried  it  on  she  felt  a  desire  to  do  so,  and  ascertain  its  fit. 
There  was  plenty  of  time  to  dress  for  church.  So  she  tried  on 
the  dress.  There  was  some  defect  about  it.  Certain  folds, 
somewhere,  did  not  lie  just  to  her  taste.  These  she  adjusted 
and  re-adjusted  over  and  over  again.  But  they  were  incorrigi- 
ble. While  thus  engaged,  she  was  aroused  by  the  voice  of  her 
mother. 

"  Anna,  come,  it  is  just  ten,  and  we  are  all  ready  to  start." 

"Don't  wait  for  me,  mother.  I  will  be  along  in  a  little 
while.  Mr.  Alton  is  going  to  call  for  me,"  returned  the  daugh- 
ter, startled  to  find  that  it  was  so  late,  and  hurriedly  taking  off 
the  new  dress. 

In  about  ten  minutes  afterward  Mr.  Alton  rung  the  bell. 

"  Tell  him  I'll  be  along  in  a  few  moments,"  was  sent  down 
by  the  servant  who  brought  her  word  of  his  arrival. 

Five,  ten,  fifteen  minutes  passed,  but  the  young  lady  had  not 
yet  appeared. 

"  I  am  really  grieved,"  murmurred  the  young  man  to  him- 
self. "  It  seems  hardly  possible  that  any  one  can  be  so  thought- 
I  met  her  father  and  mother  some  distance  on  their  way  to  church 
as  I  came  along." 

Just  then  Anna  came  hurrying  down  stairs.  It  lacked  four 
minutes  to  church  time  ;  and  the  walk  was  one  of  full  ten  minutes. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,"  said  Anna.  "  But 
really  I  had  no  idea  that  it  was  so  late.  I  scarcely  notice  the 
flight  of  time." 

"  We  shall  be  late,"  was  Alton's  only  reply  to  this. 

"  I  know  we  will.  But  we  must  walk  fast.  0  !  I  have  left 
my  handkerchief." 

She  glided  up  stairs,  and  did  not  come  down  again  for  two  or 
three  minutes.   "  They  seemed  as  long  a  period  as  ten  minutes  to 
the  mind  of  Alton. 
17* 


198         SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER. 

When  the  young  couple  entered  the  church,  the  minister  was 
reading  a  portion  of  the  service.  All  was  silence — profound  and 
deep  attention.  Their  coming  in  evidently  disturbed  the  con- 
gregation. This  was  felt  acutely  by  Alton,  who  never  enjoyed 
public  worship  so  little  in  his  life. 

After  all  was  over,  he  returned  with  Anna  to  her  home.  But 
he  said  little  on  the  way.  He  could  not.  His  mind  was  too 
much  disturbed.  His  abstraction  of  manner  was  so  marked  that 
even  Anna  could  not  help  noticing  it.  She  never  remembered 
to  have  seen  him  so  dull.  At  the  door  of  her  father's  house  he 
bowed  formally,  and  retired. 

"  How  could  you  do  so,  Anna?"  said  her  mother,  as  soon  as 
she  entered  the  house. 

"  Do  what,  mother  ?" 

"  Come  so  late  to  church,  after  all  I  said  to  you  this  morning. 
And,  worse  than  all,  to  keep  Mr.  Alton  waiting  for  you  until 
after  the  service  had  commenced.  It  was  plain  that  he  was 
greatly  annoyed." 

"  I  didn't  see  that  he  was,"  Anna  returned  with  a  slight  ex- 
pression of  surprise.  But  she  now  remembered  that  he  said  very 
little  while  either  going  or  coming.  It  might  be  that  her  moth- 
er's suggestion  was  too  near  the  truth.  Anna  was  not  happy 
during  the  rest  of  the  day. 

"  It's  no  use  disguising  the  fact,"  said  Alton  to  himself,  as  he 
walked  slowly  homeward.  "  She  will  not  suit  me.  I  should 
be  worried  out  of  my  life  by  her  want  of  punctuality.  Three 
times  has  she  already  subjected  me  to  annoyance  and  mortifica- 
tion. How  would  it  be  if  I  were  subjected  to  such  things  every 
day  of  my  life  ?  It  would  kill  me  outright !  No — no — Anna 
Milnor  ! — you  are  a  sweet,  fascinating  creature.  I  love  you  more 
than  I  dare  confess  to  myself.  But  I  cannot  make  you  my  wife. 
That  would  be  risking  too  much." 

Thus  reason  urged.  But  feeling  was  not  so  easily  subdued. 
It  pleaded  long  for  the  charming  girl — but  it  pleaded  in  vain. 
Alton  was  a  young  man  of  decided  character.  He  never 
permitted  himself  to  take  a  step  that  his  judgment  clearly  con- 
demned. 

"I  havn't  seen  you  with  Anna  Milnor,  lately,"  said  a  friend 
to  him  a  few  months  afterwards 

"  No." 

"How  is  that?" 


THE    PIC-NIC.  199 

"  Why  do  you  ask  the  question  ?" 

"  You  used  to  be  very  particular  in  your  attentions  in    that 
quarter." 

"Perhaps  I  was,  but  I  am  not  now." 

"  She's  a  lovely  girl." 

«  Yes." 

"  Just  the  one  for  you." 

"No." 

I  think  she  is." 

While  I,  the  party  most  interested,  think  otherwise." 
What  is  your  objection  ?" 
She  comes  too  late  to  church." 
What  ?" 
She  is  not  punctual." 

"  You  are  jesting." 

"  No ;  don't  you  remember  the  pic-nic." 

"  Yes ;  and  how  you  and  she  were  late,  both  in  going  and 
returning." 

"  All  her  fault.  I  don't  want  a  wife  who  has  not  a  regard  for 
punctuality.  It  would  annoy  me  to  death." 

"  But,  surely,  that  is  not  your  only  objection  ?" 

"  I  have  no  other." 

"  You  are  foolish." 

"  Perhaps  so.  But  I  can't  help  it.  My  wife  must  be  punc- 
tual, and  no  mistake." 

Alton  showed  himself  to  be  in  earnest.  Much  as  it  cost  him, 
he  steadily  resisted  the  inclination  that  was  constantly  urging 
him  to  renew  his  attentions  to  Anna  Milnor.  As  for  the  young 
lady,  she  was  unhappy  for  several  months.  Then  she  was  con- 
soled by  a  new  and  less  fastidious  lover.  She  paid  as  little  re- 
gard to  punctuality  as  ever,  but  this  was  only  a  defect  of  minor 
importance  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  man  who  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  offer  her  his  hand. 

Alton  was  invited  to  her  wedding  about  a  year  after  the  date 
of  his  unpleasant  pic-nic  adventure.  A  large  and  brilliant  party 
who  assembled  to  witness  the  nuptials,  that  were  to  take  place 
at  eight  o'clock  precisely.  At  eight,  all  the  company  were  wait- 
ing, with  the  minister,  the  descent  of  the  bridal  party.  But  time 
passed  on,  and  many  began  to  feel  impatient.  Mr.  Milnor,  the 
father  of  Anna,  came  into  the  parlor  frequently,  and  then  went 
out,  evidently  worried  at  the  delay,  the  cause  of  which  Alton 


200  WE    ONLY    KNOW    WHAT    WE    HAVE    LIVED. 

shrewdly  guessed  to  lie  in  the  fact  that  the  bride  was  not 
ready. 

"I  believe  the  girl  will  be  too  late  for  death,"  he  heard  the 
old  gentleman  say,  in  a  fretful  undertone,  to  some  one  in  the  pas- 
sage, close  to  the  door  near  by  which  he  was  sitting. 

"  Thank  heaven  for  my  escape,"  murmured  Alton  to  him- 
sel,  as  the  party  came  in  about  half-past  nine,  after  having  kept 
the  company  waiting  an  hour  and  a  half.  "  Too  late  on  her 
wedding  night !  She  would  have  killed  me  !" 

If  this  shoe  should  happen  to  pinch  any  lady,  whether  married 
or  single,  we  beg  of  her  not  to  think  for  a  moment  that  it  was 
made  for  her  foot. 


ttTE  ONLY  KNOW  WHAT  WE    HAVE 
LIVED. 


'  We  only  know  what  we  have  lived."  Many  years  ago  we 
were  struck  by  this  remark,  made  by  a  writer  of  close  observa- 
tion. At  the  time,  we  but  partially  understood  its  meaning.  It 
seemed  to  us,  that  we  knew  a  great  deal  which  had  not  been 
acquired  by  actual  experience ;  that  by  virtue  of  the  imagina- 
tive faculty  of  the  mind,  we  could  fully  realize  the  states  through 
which  many  had  passed,  notwithstanding  we  had  not  felt  in  our 
own  heart  the  actual  suffering.  In  proof  of  this,  we  appealed  to 
poetry,  and  the  appeal  seemed  at  first,  triumphant.  But  we 
learned,  as  time  went  on,  that  there  was  often,  in  poetic  por- 
traitures, more  of  the  artist's  skill  than  of  exact  truth  to  nature ; 
that  it  was  one  thing  to  imagine  a  certain  set  of  circumstances 
and  feel  in  them,  and  quite  another  thing  to  encounter  the  cir- 
cumstances themselves. 


WE    ONLY   KNOW   WHAT    WE    HAVE    LIVED.  201 

An  illustration  of  what  is  here  set  forth,  will  be  seen  in  the 
following  sketch,  the  main  features  of  which  are  taken  from 
life. 

A  preacher  named  W ,  of  rather  a  quiet  and  reserved  turn 

of  mind,  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  his  wife,  with  whom  he  had 
livea  tor  the  space  of  twenty-five  years.  No  one  but  himself 
kue\\  trie  greatness  of  the  loss,  for  no  one  knew  so  well  the  heart 
that  uad  grown  cold  in  death.  She  had  been  to  him  a  second 
seif ;  and  there  was  a  short  period,  after  the  freed  spirit  had 
gone  home,  during  which  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  chords  that 

bound  tnem  together  would  not  unloose  themselves.  But  W 

knew  in  whom  he  had  trusted  ;  and  even  with  the  tears  upon 
his  cheeks,  blessed  the  hand  by  which  he  had  been  chastened. 

It  happened,  a  few  days  after  the  dust  of  the  dear  departed 
one  had  been  consigned  to  its  kindred  dust,  that  a  young  preach- 
er named  D ,  who  knew  W very  well,  came  into  the 

town  where  he  was  stationed. 

"  How  is  brother  W ?"  he  asked  of  the  sister  at  whose 

house  he  was  sojourning,  soon  after  his  arrival. 

"  As  well  as  could  be  expected,"  was  replied.  "  You  have 
heard  of  his  loss?" 

"No!" 

"  Sister  W is  dead." 

"  Sister  W !"  exclaimed  the  young  preacher. 

"  Yes.  She  was  buried  only  three  days  ago.  Ah  me !  It  is 

a  sad  loss  to  poor  brother  W .  I  cannot  fell  how  my  heart 

aches  for  him." 

"  Sister  W dead  !"  And  as  the  preacher  said  this,  in  a 

tone  of  deep  commiseration,  he  arose,  adding  as  he  did  so,  "  I 
must  go  at  once  and  see  brother  W ." 

"  Yes,  do  see  him,"  returned  the  lady,  "  and  say  what  you  can 
in  the  way  of  comfort.  You  may  be  sure  he  needs  it.  I 
am  glad  you  have  come.  No  one  can  talk  to  him  as  you  can." 

The  preacher,  full  of  kind  intentions,  called  upon  his  afflic- 
ted brother.  He  found  him  engaged  in  writing.  As  he  looked 

up  and  recognized  him,  brother  D saw  that  over  his  usually 

grave  face  was  thrown  a  deeper  shade  of  sobriety,  and  that  his 
thoughtful  eye  had  a  dreamier  aspect. 

"  Brother  W !"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  sympathy,  grasping 

his  hand  with  more  than  his  wonted  earnestness. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  brother  D ,"  returned  the  other, 


202  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

in  a  slightly  quivering  voice  ;  and  he  squeezed  firmly  and  steadi- 
ly the  hand  of  his  spiritual  brother. 

"  And  I  am  both  glad  and  sorry,"  said  D .  "  Glad  to 

meet  you,  but  grieved  at  heart  for  the  deep  affliction  you  have 
suffered." 

The  eyes  of  W fell  to  the  floor.  There  was  a  pause,  in 

which  he  said,  "  Sit  down,  brother  D ." 

Both  seated  themselves.     As  they  did  so,  D went  on : 

"  But  I  need  not  tell  you  that  these  light  afflictions,  which  are 
but  for  a  moment,  work  out  for  us  a  far  more  exceeding  and 
eternal  weight  of  glory.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  in  this  deep 
darkness  God  will  bring  a  light ;  and  in  the  silence  of  your  un- 
utterable grief  his  voice  will  be  heard  in  words  of  comfort." 

The  eyes  of  W remained  cast  down.  He  did  not  speak, 

nor  even  show  a  sign. 

'*  Ah,  my  brother !"  continued  D ,  "  I  know  the  bitterness 

of  this  cup  you  have  been  called  to  drink.  I  know  that  you 
have  been  called  to  pass  through  the  darkest  place  in  the  valley 
of  affliction.  I  know  that  the  floods  have  arisen  on  your  soul, 
and  threaten  to  overwhelm  you.  But  fear  not,  the  bitter  portion 
shall  be  sweet ;  light  will  break  upon  you ;  the  waters  will  be 
staid.  God  is  purifying  you,  my  brother.  He  sits  as  the  refiner 
of  silver.  He  is  proving  you  in  the  furnace  of  affliction." 

W seemed  to  listen  attentively,  and  the  young  preacher, 

warming  with  his  theme,  continued  : 

"  I  know,  my  dear  brother,  how  dreadfully  your  heart  has 
been  riven.  To  lose  her,  who  has  been  your  pleasant  compan- 
ion for  so  many  years,  is,  indeed,  a  terrible  affliction.  But  I 
know  that  your  heart  will  find  consolation  in  the  sweet  reflection 
that  she  has  gone  home  first — that  she  has  passed  the  stormy 
Jordan,  and  is  safe  on  the  other  side — 

'  Her  languishing  head  is  at  rest, 

Its  aching  and  thinking  are  o'er; 
Her  quiet,  immovable  breast 

Is  heaved  by  affliction  no  more.' 

Consoling  thought !  Oh !  let  it  sink  deep,  like  a  healing 
balm,  into  your  heart.  A  few  years,  and  your  work  will  be  done.. 
A  few  years  more  of  labor  and  toil  in  your  Master's  vineyard, 
and  you,  too,  will  be  called  home.  What  a  blessed  meeting  is 
in  store  for  you !" 

Still  there  was  no  response.     W sat,  as  at  first,  with  his 


WE    ONLY   KNOW   WHAT   WE    HAVE   LIVED.  203 

eyes  upon  the  floor,  his  brow  knit,  and  his  lips  compressed. 
D paused  to  reflect  a  moment,  and  then  began  again. 

« I  know " 

"  You  don't  know  any  thing  about  it  /"  replied  W ,  in  a 

quick,  sharp  voice;  and  rising  as  he  spoke,  he  strode  from  the 
room.  Shutting  the  door  after  him,  he  left  the  young  preacher 
fairly  aghast  with  astonishment. 

For  full  fifteen  minutes  was  heard  the  heavy,  measured  tread 

of  W on  the  floor  above,  and  for  the  whole  of  that  time 

D sat  below,  feeling  deeply  hurt,  and  wondering  at  the 

strange  spirit  displayed  by  his  brother.  He  was  about  rising  to 
retire,  when  he  heard  W descending  the  stairs.  In  a  mo- 
ment after  he  opened  the  door  and  re-entered.  As  he  did  so,  he 
extended  his  hand,  and  said  in  a  humble  voice : 

"  Forgive  me,  brother  !  Poor  human  nature  is  weak,  and  it 
suffers,  sometimes,  too  deep  for  even  sympathy.  The  day  may 
come  when  you  will  understand  me  ;  though  I  pray  Heaven,  in 
mercy,  to  spare  you  that  knowledge  !" 

D went  away,  still  wondering.  He  could  not  compre- 
hend, fully,  the  strange  scene  he  had  witnessed.  Nature  had 
spoken  so  strongly  in  brother  W ,  that  the  voice  rather  stun- 
ned his  ears  than  came  to  him  with  an  intelligible  sound.  But 
he  said  nothing  to  any  one  of  what  had  occurred,  partly  because 
he  did  not  wish  to  expose  his  brother's  weakness,  and  partly  in 
consequence  of  a  certain  light  flowing  into  his  mind,  which  gave 
him  to  see  that  he  had  been,  perhaps,  too  forward  and  wordy  in 
his  efforts  to  bring  consolation,  to  an  afflicted  heart. 

Years  passed.  But  D never  lost  a  vivid  recollection  of 

the  scene  between  him  and  brother  W .  As  he  grew  older, 

and  something  of  the  ardor  and  presumptuousness  of  youth  and 
early  manhood  receded,  he  saw  more  and  more  clearly  the  mis- 
take he  had  made  in  brother  W 's  case,  and  comprehended 

more  and  more  clearly  the  state  of  mind  he  had  produced,  and 
which  manifested  itself  in  such  an  abrupt  and  startling  manner. 

But,  "  we  only  know  what  we  have  lived  ;"  and  this  truth  D 

fully  realized  in  the  end. 

Not  long  after  W 's  painful  bereavement,  D took  to 

himself  a  wife,  with  whom  he  lived  in  the  tenderest  conjugal 
relation  for  many  years.  Children  were  born  to  them — goodly 
sons  and  daughters — and  they  grew  up  and  gathered  around  like 
pleasant  olive  branches.  Then,  as  they  attained,  one  after 


204  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

another,  the  estate  of  men  and  women,  they  passed  forth  into  the 
world,  and  left  the  watchful  guardians  and  supporters  of  their 
youth  to  stand  once  more  alone.  As  if  conscious  of  weakness, 
the  old  couple  drew  closer  together,  and  leaned  more  heavily 
against  each  other  for  mutual  support. 

°A  few  years  more,  and  the  wife  of  D began  to  decline. 

For  a  time  she  drooped ;  but  scarcely  had  her  husband  awaken- 
ed with  a  trembling  fear  to  the  danger  that  was  hovering  over 
his  head,  ere  the  summons  for  her  departure  came.  Dying  in 

the  sweet  hope  of  a  blessed  immortality,  Mrs.  D tenderly 

conjured  her  husband  to  take  up  his  cross  and  bear  it  in  patient 
hope  a  little  longer.  Pointing  upward,  she  said,  almost  with  her 
latest  breath — 

"  To  patient  faith  the  prize  is  sure, 
And  all  that  to  the  end  endure 
The  cross,  shall  wear  the  crown." 

Though  nearly  sixty  years  had  laid  their  burdens  upon  him, 

D was  still  actively  engaged  in  the  duties  of  his  ministerial 

office,  when  this  heaviest  blow  he  Wad  yet  received  fell  upon 
him.  For  a  time  he  staggered  under  the  concussion.  But  he 
trusted  not  in  human  strength  ;  he  looked  to  the  strong  for  aid  ; 
and  when  his  weak  heart  gave  way,  he  felt  that  the  arms  of  Di- 
vine love  were  thrown  around  to  sustain  him. 

None  but  he  who  has  himself  passed  through  the  trial  knows 
what  is  suffered  by  one  who  looks  for  the  last  time  upon  the  face 
of  her  who  has  lain  for  years  in  his  bosom.  None  but  he  can 
have  any  realizing  sense  of  that  hopeless  chill  which  goes  elec- 
trically to  the  heart,  when  the  lips  are  pressed  for  the  last  time 
upon  the  marble  forehead  of  the  beloved  departed.  With  forced 
composure,  and  with  something  of  Christian  stoicism,  so  to  speak, 

D —  gave  to  the  death-veiled  face  of  her  he  had  so  loved  in 

life,  a  last  look,  and  touched  her  forehead  with  his  lips,  feeling, 
as  he  did  so,  as  if  an  icy  finger  were  laid  upon  his  heart.  A 
moment  his  eyes  lingered,  but  the  tears  blinded  them,  and  hid 
the  face  forever.  Those  who  were  looking  at  him  saw  his  knees 
tremble.  But  there  escaped  no  moan  from  his  suffering  spirit — 
no  sob  from  his  oppressed  bosom.  Slowly  he  moved  in  the  lit- 
tle company  that  followed  a  beloved  sister  to  the  spot  where  her 
earthly  remains  were  given  to  repose  ;  and  slowly  he  returned 
to  the  place  from  whence  they  had  borne  her,  after  the  clods  of 
the  valley  had  been  thrown  upon  her  sounding  coffin.  And  in 


WE    ONL#  KNOW    WHAT   WE   HAVE   LIVED.  205 

all  this  time,  no  one  ventured  to  speak  to  him  of  his  loss,  or  to 
offer  a  word  of  consolation ;  for  all  felt  that  words  would  be  but 
a  mockery  of  his  woe. 

The  first  night  that  D passed  alone  after  the  grave  had 

received  its  tenant — ah  !  who  that  has  passed  such  a  night  can 
ever  forget  it  ? — was  spent  in  humble,  tearful  prayer  for  strength 
to  bear  his  affliction.  Morning  found  him  sleeping  calmly,  and 
with  a  smile  upon  his  face.  He  was  dreaming  of  Heaven.  He 
saw  the  departed  one  in  the  midst  of  an  angelic  company,  and 
she  beckoned  him  away.  But,  when  the  vision  faded,  and  he 
awoke  to  the  sad  consciousness  of  his  bereavement,  his  stricken 

heart  sunk  trembling  and  faint  in  his  bosom.  But  D - 

knew  in  whom  he  had  trusted,  and  he  looked  up  and  received 
strength. 

The  day  following  was  the  Sabbath.  He  had  an  appointment 
to  preach,  and  he  kept  it.  In  the  faithful  discharge  of  his  duty, 
he  knew  would  come  sustaining  power  ;  and  he  walked  on  in  the 
path  that  was  before  him,  without  pausing  or  turning  to  the 
right  or  the  left.  But  ah !  how  lonely  and  desolate  he  felt  at  all 
times.  Every  where  he  missed  the  old,  familiar,  loving  face — 
every  where  he  listened  for  the  voice  that  had  grown  silent — 
every  where  he  waited  for  the  ministering  hand  that  had  been  so 
quick  to  anticipate  his  wants.  None  but  himself  knew  the  loss 
he  had  sustained,  for  none  knew  or  could  know  what  the  absent 
one  had  been  to  him. 

Weeks  and  months  went  by,  and  the  old  minister,  though  he 
never  missed  an  appointment,  nor  lingered  when  duty  called, 
was  evidently  failing.  His  head  whitened  more  rapidly ;  his 
form  drooped,  and  there  was  an  absent,  abstracted  air  about  him, 
that  was  noticed  particularly  by  his  old  friends. 

One  day  a  young  preacher,  who  had  heard  of  his  bereave- 
ment, but  who  had  not  met  him  since  the  painful  event,  hap- 
j  ened  to  be  passing  through  the  town  where  D was  sta- 
tioned. He  called  upon  him  as  a  thing  of  course,  and,  on 
meeting  him,  deemed  it  but  a  part  of  his  duty  to  refer  to  the 
afflictive  dispensation,  and  improve  it  to  the  spiritual  edification 
and  comfort  of  his  aged  brother.  His  reference  to  the  subject 

was  very  much  after  the  style  that  had  been  adopted  by  D 

himself  on  the  occasion  we  have  noticed  ;  and  it  brought  to  the 
latter  a  most  vivid  recollection  of  that  circumstance. 

The  words  of  the  well-meaning  young  preacher,  that  flowed 
18 


206  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE   AND   CHARACTER. 

from  no  accurate  appreciation  of  his  state  of  mind,  jarred  harshly 
on  the  feelings  of  D .  Instead  of  bringing  comfort,  they  fret- 
ted him.  Nothing  was  said  that  his  own  mind  had  not  over  and 
ove/  again  suggested  ;  yet  much  of  it  was  conveyed  in  a  man- 
ner, and  by  language,  that  made  what  was  uttered  painful  rather 
than  consoling. 

At  last  D— - —  could  bear  it  no  longer.  Laying  his  hand  upon 
the  arm  of  the  young  man,  and  interrupting  him  in  the  midst  of 
a  sentence,  he.  said, 

"  D^you  remember  old  brother  W ?" 

"  Very  well,"  replied  the  young  preacher.  "  He  often  staid 
at  my  father's  house  when  I  was  a  boy." 

"  I  was  but  little  older  than  you  are  now,"  added  D , 

"  when  brother  W lost  his  wife.  They  had  lived  together 

for  twenty-five  years,  and  during  all  that  time  there  had  been  no 

discord  between  them.  I  felt  deeply  for  brother  W in  his 

loss,  and  thought  I  could  do  no  less  than  offer  him  some  words 
of  consolation.  So  I  went  and  talked  to  him,  and  he  seemed  to 
listen  with  much  attention.  This  encouraged  me  to  go  on.  But 
all  at  once  he  started  up,  with  the  words,  '  You  don't  know 
any  thing  about  it !'  and  left  the  i^om.  And,  my  young  brother, 
he  was  right.  I  didn't  know  any  thing  about  it." 

D said  no  more.  There  was  an  embarrassing  pause, 

and  the  young  preacher  changed  the  subject. 

"  We  only  know  what  we  have  lived." 


THE  CHILD-STEALER. 


'  •  ;  %.  * 

THE   CHILD   STEALEK. 


CHAPTER  I. 

»  "  WANTED,  a  white  girl,  between  the  ages  of  fourteen  and  sixteen, 
as  child's  nurse.  One  who  can  give  satisfactory  references  as  to 
character  and  disposition,  will  hear  of  a  good  place  by  calling  at  No. 
—  Second  Street." 

This  advertisement  was  sent  to  one  of  the  New  York  morning 
papers  by  a  lady  named  Mrs.  Milford.  The  first  applicant  for 
the  situation  was  a  tall,  slender  girl,  with  a  pale  face,  deep  blue 
eyes,  and  ^hair  of  a  light  chesnut  brown.  She  was  well  dressed, 
and  had  something  prepossessing  in  her  appearance. 

"  Did  you  advertise  for  a  child's  nurse?"  she  asked,  with  a 
modest,  half-timid  air,  on  being  shown  into  the  room  where  Mrs. 
Milford  was  sitting. 

"  I  did,"  was  replied.  "  Have  you  ever  had  the  care  of  a 
baby  ?" 

"  Yes  ma'am." 

"  In  this  city,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Yes  ma'am.  J  nursed  a  baby  at  No.  —  Chambers  street, 
for  Mrs.  Williams?" 

"  Why  did  you  leave  there  ?"  inquired  the  lady. 

"  The  baby  died." 

Both  affection  and  regret  appeared  blended  in  the  tones  of  the 
young  girl's  voice. 

"  You  say  that  the  lady  for  whom  you  nursed  this  babe  lives 
in  Chambers  street  ?" 

«  Yes  ma'am  ;  at  No.  — ." 

"  You  are  willing  that  I  should  call  there,  and  make  some 
inquiries  about  you,  I  suppose  ?" 


208  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

«  Certainly,  ma'am." 

"  What  is  your  name  ?" 

"  Mary  Smith." 

"  Very  well,  Mary.  If  you  will  call  at  four  o'clock  this  af- 
ternoon, I  will  give  you  an  answer." 

"  How  old  is  the  baby  ?"  asked  the  girl. 

"  She  is  three  months  old.  You  say  Mrs.  Williams's  babe 
died  ?» 

"Yes  ma'am." 

"  What  was  its  age-?" 

"  It  was  six  months  old." 

"  Was  it  sick  long  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am.  It  was  sick  only  a  week.  It  died  of  scarlet 
fever." 

"  Indeed.     How  long  has  it  been  dead  ?" 

"  Nearly  a  year." 

"  So  long !  Well,  Mary,  you  can  call  in  again  this  afternoon. 
In  the  meantime,  I  will  see  Mrs.  Williams.  How  much  wages 
do  you  expect  to  receive  ?" 

"  I  had  twelve  shillings  a  week  at  Mrs.  Williams's." 

"  Very  well..    Come  this  afternoon  at  four  o'clock." 

The  girl  courtsied  and  retired.  There  were  many  more  an- 
swers to  the  advertisement,  but  none  of  those  who  applied  for 
the  situation  pleased  the  lady  so  well  as  the  girl  who  called  her- 
self Mary  Smith.  She  put  them  all  off  until  the  next  day. 

Towards  noon  Mrs.  Milford  went  out  and  called  at  No.  — 
Chambers  street.  She  found  Mrs.  Williams  a  very  pleasant  and 
lady-like  woman. 

"  How  long  was  Mary  with  you  ?"  inquired  Mrs  Milford. 

"  Nearly  a  year,"  replied  Mrs.  Williams. 

"  And  she  gave  you  every  satisfaction  ?" 

"  Yes.  A  kinder,  more  capable  or  more  thoughtful  girl  for  her 
age  I  have  never  seen.  Indeed,  I  look  upon  her  as  one  among 
a  thousand.  You  may  trust  your  babe  in  her  hands  without  a 
fear.  I  will  warrant  it  good  treatment." 

Testimony  like  this  was  entirely  satisfactory  to  Mrs.  Milford  , 
and  after  thanking  the  lady  for  her  politeness,  she  returned  home 
with  her  mind  at  ease  on  the  subject  of  a  nurse. 

"What  success?"  inquired  Mr.  Milford,  the  lady's  husband, 
when  he  came  home  at  dinner  time.  "  I  suppose  you  have  been 
run  down  with  applications  ?" 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  209 

"  There  have  been  only  thirty,  thus  far." 

"Oh,  dear!" 

"  But  among  these,  and  she  was  the  first  who  applied,  was 
a  nice,  genteel,  modest  looking  young  girl,  who  referred  me  to 
a  Mrs.  Williams,  in  Chambers  street,  for  her  character.  I 
called  upon  the  lady,  and  she  speaks  of  her  in  the  highest 
terms." 

;  Has  she  ever  taken  care  of  a  baby  ?" 
Yes.     She  was  child's  nurse  at  Mrs.  Williams's." 
Why  did  she  leave  there  ?" 
The  child  died  of  scarlet  fever." 
Oh!" 

;  She  appears  like  an  excellent  girl  ;  and,  from  the  way  in 
which  the  lady  spoke  of  her,  she  must  be  one  in  a  thousand." 
You  are  really  fortunate,  Clara,"  said  Mr.  Milford. 

'  So  I  think.  Dear  little  Blanche  !  I  would  not  have  any 
one  unkind  to  her  for  the  world.  How  much  a  nurse  has  it  in 
her  power  to  add  to  or  take  from  the  comfort  of  a  child.  A 
mother  cannot  be  too  careful  about  the  character  and  disposition 
of  the  person  who  shares  with  her  the  pleasing  task  of  minister- 
ing to  the  wants  of  her  babe." 

At  four  o'clock  the  girl  came. 

"  Have  you  seen  Mrs.  Williams  ?"  she  asked  with  a  slight 
unsteadiness  of  voice,  her  eyes  sinking  to  the  floor  as  she  spoke. 

"  I  have,"  replied  Mrs.  Milford.  "  And  I  am  pleased  to  say 
that  the  result  is  satisfactory." 

There  was  a  glow  on  the  girl's  cheeks  as  she  raised  her  eyes 
from  the  floor  and  looked  at  the  lady. 

"  You  will  take  me,  then,"  said  she. 

"  Certainly  I  will." 

"  When  do  you  wish  me  to  come  ?" 

"  At  once.     To-day,  if  you  are  at  liberty." 

"  Very  well,  ma'am.  My  box  is  at  my  aunt's  in  Hudson 
street.  I  will  go  for  it  and  come  back  by  dark." 

"  That  will  do,  Mary.     Are  your  parents  living  ?" 

"  My  mother  is  living." 

"  Does  she  reside  in  the  city  ?" 

"  No  ma'am.     She  resides  at  Norwalk." 

"  In  Connecticut  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Her  name  is  Smith  ?" 
18* 


210  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 


"  No,  ma'am.  Her  name  is  Talbot.  She  was  married  after 
my  father  died." 

Nothing  more  passed  between  the  lady  and  the  young  girl. 
The  latter  went  away,  but  came  back  as  she  had  promised, 
abou*  dark. 

"  Here's  something  peculiar  about  that  girl,"  said  Mr.  Mil- 
ford  to  his  wife,  that  evening,  as  they  sat  alone. 

"  So  it  strikes  me,"  replied  Mrs.  Milford.  "  Her  face  is  far 
from  being  an  ordinary  one." 

"  Very  far.  Does  she  seem  like  a  girl  who  has  received  any 
advantages  of  education  ?" 

"  I  should  think  she  has  been  well  raised.  Her  language  is 
good,  and  there  is  an  air  about  her  that  inspires  you  with  a  feel- 
ing of  respect." 

"  It's  a  great  thing  to  get  a  person  in  the  house  who  has  feel- 
ings, habits  and  manners  superior  to  the  common  mass  of  vulgar, 
ignorant  domestics." 

"  Indeed  it  is.  And  especially  desirable  is  it  to  have  such  a 
one  as  the  nurse  and  companion  of  the  younger  members  of  a 
family.  It  is  hardly  to  be  wondered  that  children  so  often  have 
low  and  vulgar  habits,  when  we  reflect  upon  the  company  into 
which  they  are  thrown." 

"  The  lady  upon  whom  you  called  to-day,  spoke  approvingly 
of  this  girl?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  She  could  not  have  given  her  a  much  higher 
character." 

Mr.  Milford  said  no  more,  but  fell  into  a  revery.  For  all  that 
his  wife  alleged  in  favor  of  Mary,  there  was  something  about  her 
which,  to  him,  seemed  hidden.  Something  that  caused  an  in- 
voluntary holding  back  of  confidence.  He  tried  to  feel  differ- 
ently, but  the  effort,  opposing,  as  it  did,  the  instinctive  percep- 
tions of  his  mind,  gave  him  a  sense  of  disturbance  and  uneasi- 
ness that  was  not  at  all  pleasant.  But  he  said  nothing  of  what 
he  felt  and  thought,  although  he  did  not  respond  as  warmly  as 
at  first  to  his  wife's  repeated  expressions  of  pleasure  at  having 
secured  so  good  a  nurse  for  little  Blanche. 

On  the  next  morning,  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Milford  were  at  the 
breakfast  table,  and  Mary,  the  nurse,  sat  holding  the  babe,  the 
former  regarded  her  with  an  earnestness  that  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  his  wife.  When  he  was  leaving  to  go  to  his  store,  she  ac- 
companied him  into  the  passage,  and  as  they  paused  there,  said— 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  211 

"  I  thought  you  looked  strangely  at  Mary  while  you  were  at 
the  table  this  morning. — Don't  you  like  her  appearance  ?" 

"  There  is,  to  me,  I  must  own,  something  peculiar  in  her  face, 
and  about  her  whole  air  and  manner,"  remarked  Mr.  Milford, 
without  directly  replying  to  the  question  of  his  wife. 

"  She  is  not  one  of  the  ordinary  class  of  domestics,  certainly," 
said  the  wife.  "  Misfortunes,  have,  probably,  reduced  her  fami- 
ly from  comfortable  to  indigent  circumstances." 

"  That  may  be." 

Without  remarking  further  upon  the  subject,  Mr.  Milford  left 
the  house  and  went  to  his  store.  His  closer  observation  of  the 
stranger  that  morning  had  not  in  the  least  weakened  the  impres- 
sions'of  the  previous  evening.  There  was,  to  his  eye,  some- 
thing of  mystery  about  her ;  and  a  half  formed  doubt  in  regard 
to  the  safety  of  the  babe  while  in  her  hands,  intruded  itself  upon 
his  mind.  But  he  strove  to  rise  above  this  feeling,  as  absurd. 
The  young  girl  had  come  well  recommended,  and  it  was  hardly 
fair  to  meet  her  with  an  unfounded  suspicion. 

When  Mr.  Milford  came  home  at  dinner  time,  he  again  ob- 
served Mary  Smith  closely.  She  appeared  to  be  aware  of  this, 
for  she  occasionally  directed  her  eyes  toward  him,  and  when  they 
met  his  steady  gaze  they  would  drop  quickly,  while  a  deeper 
color  mantled  her  cheeks. 

"  How  do  you  like  your  nurse  ?"  he  asked  of  his  wife. 

"  Oh,  very  much.  She  handles  the  babe  even  more  tenderly, 
if  possible,  than  I  do  myself,  and  with  equal  skill.  She  says 
she  loves  children  ;  and  that  she  is  sure  Mrs.  Williams  herself 
could  not  have  grieved  more  deeply  over  the  death  of  her  child 
than  she  did." 

Mr.  Milford  felt  that  it  would  be  wrong  to  put  his  undefined 
doubts  in  opposition  to  his  wife's  observation,  and  therefore  said 
nothing.  But  he  did  not  feel  any  the  less  inwardly  disturbed. 
An  instinctive  impression  that  there  was  danger  near  his  child 
haunted  him  continually.  In  a  few  days,  however,  this  began 
gradually  to  wear  off,  and,  by  the  end  of  a  week,  troubled  him 
no  longer.  Whatever  peculiarities  there  were  about  the  girl  be- 
came familiar  to  his  eyes,  and  ceased,  in  consequence,  to  appear 
strange-  Her  uniform  kindness  and  attention  to  the  babe,  it 
was  evident,  sprung  from  a  genuine  love  of  children,  and  a  con- 
sequent desire  to  do  them  good. 


212  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 


CHAPTER  II. 

It  was  early  in  May  when  Mary  Smith  entered  the  family  of 
Mr.  Milford.  She  had  been  attending  upon  little  Blanche  for, 
perhaps,  three  weeks,  when  the  mother  of  the  babe  said  to  her, 
one  warm  and  sunny  morning: 

"  I  wish,  Mary,  you  would  put  on  your  things  and  take  the 
baby  out  for  an  hour.  I  am  sure  the  fresh  air  will  do  her  good. 
I  will  wrap  her  up  warmly,  so  that  she  cannot  possibly  take 
cold." 

"  Certainly,  ma'am,"  said  the  young  girl  with  a  cheerful  man- 
ner, and  left  the  room  to  prepare  herself  to  go  out. 

When  Mary  came  down  from  her  room,  the  child  was  ready. 
After  kissing  it  with  eager  fondness,  Mrs.  Milford  placed  her 
darling  in  the  arms  of  its  nurse,  who  drew  it  closely  and  ten- 
derly to  her  bosom,  and,  without  looking  into  the  face  of  its 
mother,  turned  away  with  the  precious  burden,  and  was  soon 
out  in  the  bland  and  sunny  air. 

"  Dear  angel!"  said  Mrs.  Milford,  with  the  tears  of  love  dim- 
ming her  eyes.  "  How  precious  and  priceless  a  gift  is  an  in- 
nocent babe'!" 

After  Mary  had  gone  out  with  Blanche,  the  house  had  a  deso- 
late and  lonely  feeling.  The  mother  sat  down  with  her  sewing 
in  her  hands,  but,  in  a  little  while  laid  it  aside,  and,  going  to 
the  window,  stood  and  looked  out  upon  the  street  and  upon 
those  who  were  passing,  with  a  kind  of  vague  expectation  of 
seeing  Mary  and  the  babe,  although  she  had  told  the  nurse  that 
she  might  walk  in  the  air  for  an  hour.  From  the  window  she 
went  back  to  her  sewing,  but  could  do  nothing.  She  then  took 
up  a  book,  but  after  reading  a  page  over  three  or  four  times 
without  comprehending  a  sentence,  she  laid  that  aside,  and  went 
up  into  her  chamber  and  occupied  herself  with  arranging  her 
drawers  until  the  clock  struck  one,  about  which  time  Mary  was 
to  be  back.  She  listened,  while  still  engaged  at  her  drawers, 
for  the  bell,  every  moment  expecting  to  hear  it  ring.  Thus  went 
by  a  full  half  an  hour. 

"  That  girl  is  staying  out  too  long,"  she  at  length  said,  a 
conviction  of  this  fact  coming  forcibly  to  her  mind.  Closing  her 


THE   CHILD   STEALER.  213 

drawers,  she  went  down  stairs,  and  stood  for  ten  or  fifteen  min- 
utes at  one  of  the  parlor  windows,  looking  out,  and  every  instant 
expecting  to  see  Mary  appear  with  Blanche.  Then  she  went  to 
the  door,  and  looked  up  and  down  the  street  earnestly.  But  she 
could  not  distinguish  the  form  she  sought. 

When  the  clock  at  last  struck  two,  the  blow  fell  heavily  upon 
her  heart,  and  caused  a  slight  shudder  to  disturb  her  frame. 

"  What  can  keep  her  away  so  long  ?"  she  said  aloud.  "  If 
any  thing  should  have  happened  to  her!" 

This  thought  and  its  audible  expression  thrilled  her  with  a 
feeling  of  alarm. 

The  street  door  bell  rung  at  the  instant. 

"  There  they  are  now  !"  she  exclaimed,  striking  her  hands 
together,  and  standing  almost  on  tiptoe  with  expectation,  while 
a  servant  went  to  the  door. 

The  mother  sunk  into  a  chair,  weak  and  trembling,  as  she 
heard  the  rough  voice  of  a  man,  asking  if  some  article  he  had 
for  sale  was  wanted. 

The  very  pulsations  of  the  clock  upon  the  mantel  were  felt  on 
the  heart  of  Mrs.  Milford,  as  she  waited  and  watched  for  her 
babe's  return  for  another  long  and  anxious  hour,  at  the  expira- 
tion of  which  time  her  husband  came  home. 

"  In  the  name  of  Heaven,  Clara  !  what's  the  matter  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Milford,  in  alarm,  the  moment  he  met  his  wife. 

The  mother's  lips  quivered  so,  and  her  voice  was  so  dry  and 
choking,  that  it  was  some  moments  before  she  could  say — 

"  I  am  uneasy  about  little  Blanche  !" 

"  Why?  Is  she  sick?"  eagerly  asked  Mr.  Milford,  in  a  con- 
cerned voice. 

"  Oh,  no !"  replied  his  wife—"  but  I  let  Mary  take  her  out  to 
get  a  little  fresh  air,  three  hours  ago,  and  she  has  not  yet  re- 
turned." 

"  Indeed  !     Did  you  tell  her  not  to  stay  out  long  ?" 

"  I  particularly  charged  her  not  to  be  gone  over  an  hour." 

"  And  she  has  been  gone  three  hours  ?" 

"  Yes.  It  was  just  twelve  o'clock  when  she  went  away.  I 
am  afraid  something  has  happened.  She  may  have  been  knock- 
ed down  by  a  vehicle,  while  crossing  the  street,  and  the  child 
killed." 

And  as  the  mother  uttered  this,  suggestion,  the  tears  stole  forth, 
and  followed  each  other  slowly  over  her  cheeks. 


214  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  Oh,  no !"  returned  Mr.  Milford.  "  It  is  much  more  proba- 
ble that  she  has  gone  to  the  house  of  some  acquaintance,  and 
overstaid  her  time." 

"  She  asked  me  if  she  might  call  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Wil- 
liams and  let  her  see  Blanche." 

"  Did  you  give  her  permission  to  do  so  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Where  does  Mrs.  Williams  live  ?" 

"  At  number  —  Chambers  street." 

"  She  couldn't  go  down  there  and  back  in  less  than  an  hour ; 
if  even  in  that  time." 

"  But  it's  three  hours  since  she  went  out." 

Mr.  Milford  reflected  for  a  short  time  and  then  said — 

"  It's  clear  she  ought  to  have  been  home  long  before  this." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have  never  been  away  from  Blanche  for  so 
long  a  time  since  she  was  born.  She  must  be  fretting  with 
hunger." 

"  I  will  go  and  see  the  lady  of  whom  you  speak,  and  learn  at 
what  time  Mary  was  there,"  said  Mr.  Milford,  moving  away. 

"  Don't  stay  a  moment  longer  than  you  can  help,"  urged 
the  wife,  with  a  look  and  tone  of  entreaty,  as  her  husband  turned 
to  go. 

An  empty  cab  was  passing  just  as  Mr.  Milford  descended  to 
the  street.  Into  this  he  sprung,  and  ordered  the  driver  to  take 
him  with  all  possible  speed  to  the  house  of  the  lady  he  wished 
to  see. 

"  Did  a  young  girl  named  Mary  Smith,  call  here  this  morn- 
ing ?"  he  asked,  after  a  hurried  apology  for  his  intrusion  as  a 
stranger. 

"  No  sir,"  replied  the  lady. 

"  You  know  the  girl  I  mean  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  sir.  A  lady  called  upon  me  a  few  weeks  ago  to 
enquire  her  character." 

"  It  was  my  wife,  ma'am  ;  and  upon  your  recommendation 
she  took  her  to  help  nurse  an  infant  a  few  months  old.  To-day 
she  took  the  child  out  to  give  it  the  fresh  air.  She  w?ent  away 
at  twelve  o'clock,  and  has  not  yet  returned." 

"  Indeed !" 

"  Before  leaving,  she  asked  my  wife  if  she  were  willing  for 
her  to  call  and  let  you  see  the  babe ;  and  was  told  that  she 
might  do  so." 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  215 

"  She  has  not  been  here,"  said  the  lady. 

"Strange!"  mused  Mr.  Milford.  "lam  afraid  some  acci- 
dent has  happened." 

"  I  hope  not, — Mary  is  a  very  careful  girl.  She  often  used 
to  go  out  with  our  babe." 

"  She  did  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  frequently." 

"  Where  do  her  friends  live  ?" 

"  She  has  an  aunt  living  somewhere  in  Grand  street,  near  the 
market.  She  may  have  gone  there." 

"  What  is  the  name  of  her  aunt  ?" 

"  Smith." 

"  You  don't  know  the  number  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  But  it's  close  by  the  market.  Almost  any  one 
there,  I  presume,  can  direct  you  aright." 

"  I  will  return  home  first,  and  if  she  is  not  there,  will  go  im- 
mediately to  the  place  you  mention,"  said  Mr.  Milford.  Apolo- 
gizing again  for  his  abrupt  intrusion,  he  left  the  house  and  re- 
turned to  his  own  residence,  to  see  if  Mary  had  appeared. 

"  Have  you  found  them  ?"  was  the  eager  question  of  Mrs. 
Milford,  as  she  met  her  husband. 

"  No,  dear.     Mary  has  not  been  at  Mrs.  William's  to-day." 

'Some  accident  has  surely  happened  to  them!"  And  the 
mother  wept  and  wrung  her  hands  in  an  agony  of  suspense  and 
fear. 

"  Her  aunt  lives  in  Grand  street,  so  Mrs.  Williams  told  me. 
I  will  ride  over  there,  and — " 

"  Not  in  Grand  street,"  quickly  interposed  Mrs.  Milford. 
"  She  told  me,  several  times,  that  her  aunt  lived  in  Hudson 
street." 

"  She  did  ?" 

"  Yes.     I  remember  this  distinctly." 

"  She  must  have  two  aunts,  then,  for  Mrs.  Williams  said  her 
aunt  lived  in  Grand  street,  near  the  market." 

"  Perhaps  she  has  moved  to  Hudson  street,"  suggested  Mrs. 
Milford. 

"  That  may  be.  In  what  part  of  Hudson  street  did  she  say 
her  aunt  lived  ?" 

Somewhere  above  Canal  street,  but  I  never  enquired  parti(  u- 
larly." 

"  Did  you  ask  the  aunt's  name  ?" 


216  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  No." 

"  Smith  is  the  name  of  the  one  that  lived  in  Grand  street 
Perhaps  I  had  better  go  there  first." 

"  Go  quickly,  then,  Edward,  or  this  suspense  will  kill  me. 
You  don't  know  how  strangely  I  feel." 

"  Let  your  mind  be  as  composed  as  possible,  Clara,"  said  her 
husband,  although  his  trembling  voice  and  pale  countenance 
betrayed  his  own  agitation.  "  If  any  accident  had  happened, 
we  should  have  received  intelligence  in  regard  to  it  long  before 
this  time." 

"  Then,  what  can  keep  her  away  ?" 

"  Heaven  only  knows  !"  fell  anxiously  from  the  father's  lips, 
as  he  turned  and  left  the  house.  Hurried  directions  were  given 
to  the  driver,  and  then  the  half  distracted  man  threw  himself 
into  the  vehicle,  and  was  whirled  with  rapid  speed  across  the 
city.  Arrived  in  the  neighborhood  where  the  aunt  of  Mary  was 
supposed  to  live,  he  left  the  cab,  and  going  into  a  small  gro- 
cery, enquired  if  the  keeper  could  tell  him  where  he  would  find 
a  Mrs.  Smith. 

"  Is  she  a  lone  woman  ?"  asked  the  man. 

"  That  is  more  than  I  can  tell.  But  she  has  a  niece  named 
Mary." 

The  man  thought  awhile,  and  then  shook  his  head. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  he,  "  Mr.  Jones,  over  at  the  corner,  can  tell 
you.  But  I  don't  know  any  Mrs.  Smith  about  here." 

Mis.  Jones  was  called  upon,  and  she  pointed  to  a  house  two 
blocks  off,  and  said  she  believed  it  was  there.  On  enquiring  at 
the  house,  Mr.  Milford  received  a  satisfactory  answer. 

"  Can  I  see  Mrs.  Smith  ?"  he  asked,  of  a  little  girl  who  came 
to  the  door. 

"  Yes  sir.     Walk  in,"  said  the  child. 

Mr.  Milford  was  shown  into  a  little  parlor,  where  he  sat  for  a 
few  minutes,  when  a  woman  of  very  respectable  appearance 
entered. 

"  You  have  a  niece,  I  believe,  named  Mary  Smith,  who  lives 
out  ?"  said  Mr.  Milford,  not  waiting  for  any  preliminaries. 

"  I  have,"  replied  the  woman. 

"  She  is  living  with  my  wife." 

The  woman  slightly  bent  her  head  in  acknowledgement  of 
the  fact. 

«  Has  she  been  here  to-day  ?" 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  217 

«  No  sir." 

"  She  went  out  with  our  babe,  to  give  it  the  benefit  of  a  little 
fresh  air,  at  twelve  o'clock,  and  had  not  returned   at  four,  when 
I  left  home  to  come  here.     My  wife  is  almost  distracted  with 
fear,  lest  some  accident  has  happened  to  them." 
"  Strange  !"  said  the  aunt,  looking  serious. 
"  She  asked  my  wife  if  she  might  take  the  child  to  Mrs.  Wil- 
liams'  where   she  formerly  lived,   and  she   told  her  that  she 
might  do  so.     But  Mrs.  Williams  says  she  has  not  been  there." 
The  aunt's  expression  of  surprise  changed  to  one  of  alarm  and 
uneasiness. 

It  is  four  hours  since  she  went  out  ?" 

Yes.     And  my  wife  charged  her  to  be  back  in  an  hour." 

I  cannot  understand  it,"  said  the  woman. 

Has  she  another  aunt  living  in  Hudson  street  ?" 

No.     I  am  the  only  relative  she  has  in  the  city." 

My  wife  says  says  she  told  her  that  she  had  an  aunt  living 


in 


«y 

ids 


ludson  street. 


Your  lady  misunderstood  her.     She  said  Grand  street." 
Do  you  know  of  any  friends,  where  she  might  probably  have 
gone  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  do  not.  Mary  has  very  few  acquaintances ;  and, 
to  me,  it  seems  very  unlikely  that  she  would  go  any  where  but 
to  the  place  she  mentioned.  It  looks  very  strange,  sir.  I  do  not 
at  all  understand  it." 

"  Some  accident  must  have  happened  to  her  in  the  street," 
said  Mr.  Milford. 

"  I  cannot  tell.     But  something  is  wrong." 

Nothing  was  left  for  Mr.  Milford  but  to  go  home  again,  under 
the  faint  hope  that  Mary  might  have  returned  during  his  ab- 
sence. But  he  met  the  white  face  of  his  wife  as  he  entered  the 
door,  and  that  told,  without  the  aid  of  words,  how  vain  had  been 
the  hope.  To  his  hurried  explanation,  Mrs.  Milford  answered 
only  by  falling  heavily  against  him.  He  caught  her  in  his  arms, 
and  called  her  name  anxiously.  But  her  ears  were  deaf  to  his 
voice.  Suspense  and  fear  had  proved  too  much  for  the  moth 
er's  heart,  and  nature  had  given  her  a  temporary  relief  from  pain, 
in  unconsciousness. 


19 


218  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Mrs.  Smith,  the  aunt  of  Mar}-,  felt  greatly  troubled  at  what 
she  had  heard.  Soon  after  Mr.  Milford  left,  she  put  on  her  things, 
and  went  to  three  or 'four  places,  where  she  thought  it  possible 
her  niece  might  have  called  ;  but  to  none  of  them  had  she  been. 
She  then  proceeded  to  the  place  where  she  had  been  living,  in 
the  hope  that  she  might  have  returned,  or  that  some  intelligence 
had  been  received  from  her. 

"  Has  Mary  come  home  yet  ?"  she  asked  of  the  waiter  who 
came  to  the  door. 

Yes.     She  came  in  half  an  hour  ago." 
Indeed  !     Where  had  she  been  ?" 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know.     I  didn't  ask  her." 
Did  she  come  home  alone  ?" 

I  believe  so.      I  let  her  in,  and  didn't  notice  that  any  one 
was  with  her  but  the  baby." 

Had  it  been  sick  ?     Or  had  any  thing  happened  to  it  ?" 
Not  that  I  heard.    Will  you  walk  in  ?     You  will  find  Mary 
up  in  the  nursery." 

Mrs.  Smith  entered  the  house,  and  went  quickly  up  stairs. 

"  Why,  Mary  !"  she  said,  on  meeting  her  niece.  "  Where 
have  you  been  ?" 

"  I  haven't  been  to  any  place  in  particular,"  replied  the  young 
girl,  looking  into  the  face  of  her  relative  in  surprise  at  her  strange 
manner  and  strange  interrogation.  "  What  is  the  matter?  You 
look  as  if  you  had  been  frightened  ?" 

"  And  so  I  have  ?" 

"  What  about  ?"  enquired  Mary. 

"  Why,  about  you." 

"  About  me !  That's  strange.  Why  have  you  been  fright- 
ened about  me  ?" 

"  Mr.  Thompson  was  over  to  see  me  about  half  an  hour  ago, 
and  said  that  you  had  been  out  with  the  baby  since  twelve 
o'clock,  and  that  Mrs.  Thompson  was  distressed  to  death  for  fear 
that  some  accident  had  happened." 

The  young  girl  looked  confounded. 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  219 

"  Where  were  you  child  for  so  long  a  time  ?"  asked  her 
aunt  still  looking  concerned. 

"  Mr.  Thompson  !  Why,  he  hasn't  been  out  of  the  house  for 
a  week." 

"  It  was  somebody,  then,  who  said  that  you  lived  with  his 
wife,  and  that  you  had  been  out  with  the  baby  since  twelve 
o'clock." 

"  I  didn't  go  out  until  after  three,  and  was  not  gone  an  hour," 
said  Mary.  "  There  is  some  mistake." 

"  The  man  said  that  you  had  asked  permission  of  his  wife  to 
take  the  baby  down  to  Mrs.  Williams's  while  you  were  out." 

"  There  is  some  mistake,  aunt.  I  received  no  such  permis- 
sion, and  didn't  go  there.  But  I  will  ask  Mrs.  Thompson  to 
come  up  into  the  nursery,  and  you  can  see  her  about  it." 

Mrs.  Thompson  corrobated,  as  a  matter  of  course,  all  that 
Mary  had  said.  But  the  strange  story  of  the  aunt  excited  no 
little  surprise  all  around.  None  of  the  parties  could  understand 
it.  Mr.  Thompson  had  been  confied  to  the  house  from  sickness 
for  more  than  a  week,  and  it  was,  therefore,  clear,  that  he  was 
not  the  individual  who  had  called  upon  Mrs.  Smith.  But  the 
allusion  to  Mrs.  Williams  could  not  be  understood  ;  though  the 
fact  that  Hudson  street  had  been  mentioned  as  the  residence  of 
the  aunt,  made  it  it  evident  that  some  other  Mary  Smith  was 
meant. 

The  aunt  returned  home  with  a  lighter  heart  than  when  she 
left  it,  though  wondering  at  the  strange  visit  she  had  received. 

Until  his  wife  recovered  consciousness  and  reason,  Mr.  Mil- 
ford  dared  not  resume  his  efforts  to  find  the  nurse  and  child,  and 
it  was  fully  an  hour  before  these  came  back.  He  then  left  her 
in  care  of  the  family  physician,  who  had  been  called  in,  and 
started  out  again.  By  the  aid  of  many  friends,  and  the  assistance 
of  the  police,  the  whole  city  was  searched  over ;  but,  at  twelve 
o'clock  at  night,  not  the  first  clue  had  been  discovered,  and  the 
wretched  father  returned  home  to  his  more  wretched  wife,  to 
pass,  in  sleepless  anguish  of  mind,  the  hours  of  darkness  that 
remained  ere  the  light  of  another  day  broke  upon  the  world. 

It  is  hard  to  imagine  the  amount  of  suffering  that  was  crowd- 
ed into  those  few  hours  of  terrible  fear  and  suspense.  The  an- 
guish of  the  mother's  mind  had  become  too  deep  for  tears  ;  and 
to  her  husband's  anxiety  for  his  lost  babe,  was  added  a  pain- 
ful dread  lest  his  wife's  reason  should  yield  under  the  dreadful 


220  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

calamity.  And  he  had  cause  of  alarm,  The  affliction  was 
greater  than  she  had  strength  to  bear,  and  a  gradual  relief, 
through  the  overshadowing  of  her  mind,  was  stealing  almost 
imperceptibly  upon  her.  When  morning  dawned,  and  the  all- 
revealing  light  of  day  came  broadly  into  their  chamber,  Mr.  Mil- 
ford  saw,  in  the  restless  eyes  and  strange  expression  of  his  wife's 
face,  startling  evidences  of  a  wandering  intellect ;  and  perceived, 
in  her  questions  and  remarks,  too  much  that  but  gave  strength 
to  his  fears. 

Serious  indications  of  illness  became  apparent  soon  after  day- 
light, and  Mr.  Milford  deemed  it  best  to  call  in  their  physician, 
whose  sober  expression  of  face  and  thoughtful  air  alarmed  the 
husband  still  more  for  his  wife's  safety.  She  had  been  up 
throughout  the  whole  night  but  was  now  compelled  to  go  to  bed. 

As  early  as  he  deemed  it  right  to  leave  his  wife,  Mr.  Milford  pre- 
pared to  renew  his  search  for  the  absent  nurse  and  child.  He 
was  just  going  out,  when  informed  that  there  was  a  lady  and  a 
young  girl  in  the  parlor,  who  wished  to  see  either  himself  or 
Mrs.  Milford.  He  attended  them  immediately. 

"  Mrs.  Williams  !"  he  exclaimed,  on  entering  the  parlor. 

"  This  is  the  young  girl  that  I  supposed  I  was  recommending 
to  Mrs.  Milford,  when  she  called  to  enquire  about  Mary  Smith," 
said  the  lady,  without  any  preliminary  remark. 

Mr.  Milford  turned  his  eyes  quickly  upon  the  girl.  She  had 
a  full,  round,  pleasant  face,  dark  eyes  and  dark  hair ;  and  was 
not  so  tall  by  two  or  three  inches  as  the  one  who  had  been  in 
his  family,  and  called  herself  Mary  Smith. 

"  But  I  find,"  added  the  visiter,  "  that  she  has  never  been  in 
your  family."  • 

"  I  never  saw  her  before,"  said  Mr.  Milford. 

"  Who,  then,  is  the  person  that  has  assumed  to  be  the  Mary 
Smith  who  lived  in  my  family  as  nurse  ?  What  was  her  ap- 
pearance ?" 

"  She  was  taller,  and  more  lightly  made  than  this  girl.  Her 
lace  was  thin  and  pale,  her  eyes  of  a  deep  blue,  and  her  hair 
brown.  I  always  thought  there  was  something  peculiar  about 
her,  and  did  not  for  some  time  feel  satisfied.  But  your  strong 
recommendation  caused  me  to  let  my  instinctive  perceptions  and 
vague  fears  go  to  sleep.  Have  you  any  idea  of  who  she  is 
from  my  description  ?" 

"  Not  the  slightest,"  replied  the  lady. 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  221 

"  Have  you  ?"  addressing  the  real  Mary  Smith. 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"  Strange  !"  murmured  Mr.  Milford. 

"  You  advertised  for  a  nurse,  I  believe  ?"  said  Mrs.  Wil- 
liams. 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  And  this  girl  applied  for  the  situation  ?" 

"  She  was  the  first  who  came." 

"  I  am  almost  afraid  .to  utter  what  is  in  my  mind,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Williams,  after  musing  for  some  moments.  "  But  it  seems 
so  like  the  truth  that  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  express  it." 

"  Keep  nothing  back.  It  is  the  truth  that  is  now  wanted 
above  all  things." 

"  It  is  plain  that  this  girl,  whoever  she  may  be,  is  an  im- 
poster." 

"  Plain  as  any  thing  in  the  world." 

"  And  the  only  object  she  could  have  had  in  view,  in  intro- 
ducing herself  in  your  family  must  have  been  to  get  possession 
of  your  child." 

"Dreadful!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Milford,  shuddering.  "What 
could  she  want  with  my  child,  a  helpless  babe  at  its  mother's 
breast?" 

"  As  an  object  to  create  sympathy,  perhaps.  As  a  means  by 
which  to  extort  money  from  weak  and  credulous  people." 

The  miserable  father  clasped  his  hands  together  across  his 
forehead,  and  groaned  aloud. 

"  Then  she  has,  doubtless,  left  the  city  ere  this  ?"  he  said, 
after  he  had  slightly  recovered  himself. 

"  I  fear  as  much.  How  the  wretch  learned  my  name,  or  the 
name  of  the  girl  who  lived  in  my  family,  is  more  than  I  can 
comprehend." 

"  Are  you  sure  that  you  cannot  identify  her  from  my  de- 
scription ?" 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  do  so,  but  find  myself  completely  at 
fault." 

"  Nor  you  ?"  addressing  the  girl. 

"  I  cannot,"  was  replied. 

"  It  will  kill  my  wife  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Milford,  losing  con- 
trol of  himself,  and  exhibiting  great  agitation.      "  Already  her 
mind  is  beginning  to  sink.    Our  child  stolen !    Gracious  Heaven ' 
I  must  be  dreaming  !" 
19* 


222  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  I  fear  that  my  suggestion  is  but  too  true,"  remarked  the 
lady,  who  was  a  good  deal  affected.  "  Be  that,  however,  as  it 
may,  it  will  be  wisest,  I  am  sure,  to  act  as  if  it  were  so,  and 
immediately  call  public  attention  to  what  has  occurred,  by  ad- 
vertisements in  all  the  newspapers.  By  this  means  the  wretch 
who  has  been  guilty  of  the  dreadful  act,  may  be  discovered  be- 
fore she  has  an  opportunity  to  get  away  from  the  city." 

Upon  this  suggestion  Mr.  Milford  acted  without  a  moment's 
delay.  The  newspapers  of  that  afternoon  and  the  next  morning 
contained  the  startling  announcement  that  a  child  had  been  sto- 
len from  its  parents,  accompanied  by  such  particulars  as  were 
deemed  necessary,  and  an  accurate  description  of  the  girl  who 
was  supposed  to  be  guilty  of  the  deed. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

While  waiting  for  the  public  announcements  to  do  their  work, 
Mr.  Milford,  was  not  idle.  Independent  of  the  police,  as  many 
individuals,  friends  and  others,  as  could  be  brought  into  the  ser- 
vice, were  engaged,  night  and  day,  in  searching  every  nook  and 
corner  of  the  city  where  the  least  hope  of  finding  the  fugitive 
tempted  them  to  go.  But  days  came  and  went,  and  weeks 
passed,  without  a  glimmer  of  intelligence. 

In  the  meantime,  the  mother's  distress  became  so  great  as  to 
deprive  Her  of  reason.  The  loss  of  her  babe,  and  the  terrible 
anguish  that  followed,  were  more  than  she  had  strength  to  en- 
dure, and  her  mind  sunk  under  them. 

How  suddenly  had  clouds  gathered  in  the  sunny  sky  !  The 
morning  opened  in  smiles ;  the  day  advanced  with  its  rosy 
hours  ;  all  was  bright  with  golden  promise.  But,  in  an  instant, 
darkness  gathered  around ;  and  there  was  no  where  a  glimmer 
of  light. 

It  was  just  one  week  from  the  day  on  which  his  child  had 
disappeared,  that  Mr.  Milford  received  a  letter  from  Albany,  in- 
forming him  that  there  was  a  stranger  at  one  of  the  hotels,  who 
had  in  her  possession  an  infant,  and  that  something  in  her  con- 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  223 

duct  had  attracted  attention,  as  being  either  mysterious,  or  in- 
consistent with  the  story  she  told  about  herself.  The  condition 
of  Mrs.  Milford  had  by  this  time  became  really  alarming.  Her 
body  had  yielded  as  well  as  her  mind,  and  the  family  physician 
could  give  to  the  anxious  inquiries  of  her  friends  but  few  answers 
of  encouragement.  Still,  it  was  necessary  to  leave  her  and 
seek  to  recover  the  infant ;  and  on  that  evening  Mr.  Milford  left 
for  Albany.  Arrived  in  that  city,  he  called,  soon  after  daylight, 
upon  the  individual  who  had  written  to  him.  After  introducing 
himself,  he  enquired,  anxiously,  in  regard  to  the  suspected  person. 

"  Where  is  she  ?"  was  among  his  first  questions. 

"At  the  City  Hotel." 

"  Is  she  a  very  young  woman  ?" 

"  No.  From  what  I  could  learn — I  have  not  seen  her  my- 
self— I  should  suppose  that  she  was  between  forty  and  fifty."  " 

Mr.  Milford  sighed  heavily  and  shook  his  head. 

"  The  girl  who  had  my  child,  and  who  we  have  every  reason 
to  believe  carried  her  off,  was  not  over  fifteen  years  of  age," 
said  he. 

"  But  she  may  have  an  accomplice,  you  know,"  suggested 
the  individual. 

"  True.  Very  true."  And  the  face  of  Mr.  Milford  bright- 
ened. "  And  now,  sir,  will  you  tell  me  all  you  know  about  this 
woman,  and  why  you  were  led  to  suppose  that  the  child  she  has 
with  her  is  not  her  own  ?" 

To  this  the  man  answered, 

"  I  am  a  member  of  the  Church.  About  a  week  ago  I  had 
occasion  to  call  upon  our  minister,  when  he  stated  that  he  had, 
but  an  hour  before,  been  visited  by  a  woman,  whose  story  of 
distress  had  affected  him  deeply.  She  was  the  recent  widow, 
he  said,  of  an  old  friend,  to  whom  he  had  been  strongly  attach- 
ed, and  of  whose  death,  up  to  that  moment,  he  had  not  been 
apprised.  He  had  corresponded  with  this  friend  for  years,  and 
the  friend  had  often  mentioned  his  excellent  wife,  although  it 
so  happened  that  our  minister  had  never  met  her.  The  woman 
who  represented  herself  as  being  this  person,  a  fact  that  was  not 
at  the  time  doubted,  had  with  her  quite  a  young  infant.  She 
spoke  of  herself  as  being  on  her  way  home  to  her  friends  in 
Bangor,  Maine,  and  stated  that  the  expense  of  travelling  had 
been  so  much  greater  than  she  had  anticipated,  as  to  entirely 
exhaust  her  supply  of  money,  and  put  her  to  the  painful  and  ex- 


224  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

ceedingly  disagreeable  necessity  of  applying  to  the  old  friend  of 

her  husband  for  some  trifling  aid.    Mr. is  a  man  of  ready 

sympathies,  and  but  little  perception  of  character  and  knowledge 
of  the  world.  To  his  friend,  as  I  said,  he  was  warmly  attached  ; 
and  the  appearance  of  his  widow,  with  a  helpless  babe  in  her 
arms,  melted  his  heart  in  an  instant.  He  did  not  think  of 
questioning  the  truth  of  the  woman's  story.  Every  word  was 
implicitly  believed.  From  his  own  slender  purse  he  supplied 
ten  dollars,  and  interested  numbers  of  his  parishoners  in  her 
cause.  In  all  I  do  not  think  he  obtained  less  than  fifty  dollars, 
which  were  placed  in  her  hands.  At  the  first  interview  he  held 
with  the  woman,  he  desired  her  to  remain  in  his  house,  during 
her  brief  sojourn  in  Albany.  But  she  excused  herself  by  saying 
that,  as  she  was  at  the  hotel,  and  only  intended  staying  for  a 
very  short  time,  she  preferred  not  making  any  change,  espe- 
cially as  her  doing  so  must  put  his  family  to  some  inconve- 
nience. He  would  not  listen  to  this,  at  first,  but  found  himself 
unable  to  induce  her  to  come  into  his  family. 

"  Instead  of  pushing  on  eastward,  the  moment  she  obtained  a 
supply  of  money,  the  woman  still  lingered,  and  after  she  had 

got  all  out  of  Mr. that  she  was  likely  to  get,  commenced 

experimenting  on  the  sympathies  of  another  minister,  living  in 
another  part  of  the  town,  and  belonging  to  a  different  denomi- 
nation. To  this  person  she  did  not  come  with  so  plausible  a 
story,  nor  was  he  a  man  so  likely  to  be  deceived.  In  a  word, 
he  suspected  that  she  was  an  impostor,  and  questioned  her  so 
closely  that  she  was  glad  to  get  out  of  his  way  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. The  babe  in  her  arms,  he  noticed,  lay  in  a  deep  slum- 
ber. The  thought,  why  he  did  not  know,  glanced  through  his 
mind  that  this  sleep  was  not  natural ;  and  he  questioned  her 
closely  on  this  head,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  try  to  awaken 
the  child.  But  the  slight  efforts  made  produced  no  effect,  and 
she  was  careful  not  to  let  him  repeat  them.  His  firm  impres- 
sion is,  that  the  infant  she  carried  in  her  arms,  and  spoke  of  as 
her  own,  was  lying  in  a  stupor  occasioned  by  the  administration 
of  some  narcotic  drug.  He  spoke  freely  of  the  occurrence  to 
members  of  his  Church,  and  one  of  them  mentioned  the  circum- 
stance to  me.  On  the  day  after,  I  saw  an  account  of  the  loss  of 
your  child  in  one  of  the  newspapers,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that 
possibly  this  woman  had  it  in  her  possession,  and  I  therefore 
wrote  to  you." 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  225 

"  Is  she  still  at  the  City  Hotel  ?"  enquired  Mr.  Milford. 

"  She  was  there  yesterday." 

"  Did  you  learn  by  what  name  she  passed  ?" 

"  Yes.     It  was  Green." 

After  expressing,  warmly,  his  thanks,  and  promising  to  call 
and  let  the  man  know  the  result  of  his  inquiries  in  regard  to 
the  woman,  Mr.  Milford  went  to  the  City  Hotel.  After  looking 
into  the  parlors,  he  repaired  to  the  bar  and  put  the  question. 

"  Is  there  a  Mrs.  Green  here  ?" 

"  She  left  for  Buffalo,  yesterday,"  was  the  answer  he  re- 
ceived. 

Mr.  Milford  leaned  heavily  against  the  bar,  for  the  reply 
caused  his  knees  to  tremble. 

"For  Buffalo!"  said  he,  in  an  agitated  voice. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  simply  answered  the  bar-tender. 

"  Had  she  a  child  with  her  ?" 

"  She  had." 

"  Of  what  age  ?" 

"  It  was  very  young.     Only  a  few  months  old." 

"  Do  you  think  it  was  her  own  child  ?" 

"  I  never  thought  otherwise." 

"  Was  there  a  young  girl  with  her  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  Did  you  notice  any  thing  that  seemed  strange  about  the 
woman  ?" 

"  Well,  as  to  that,  I  must  confess  that  I  did.  She  came,  she 
said,  from  Boston.  But  a  man  who,  on  the  same  day,  arrived 
here  from  New  York,  mentioned  her  as  a  fellow  passenger  from 
that  city.  I  said  nothing,  but  jotted  the  fact  down.  Other 
things  that  I  have  heard,  satisfy  me  that  she  is  a  kind  of 
begging  impostor.  But  I  never  imagined  that  the  child  she  had 
was  not  her  own.  Has  any  one  lost  a  young  infant?" 

"  Yes.     One  has  been  stolen  from  me." 

"  From  you !" 

"  Were  you  led  to  suppose  that  the  woman  ill-treated  the 
child  she  had  ?  Did  you  ever  hear  it  crying?" 

"  No,  sir.     It  was  always  sleeping  when  I  saw  her  with  it." 

"  Did  she  go  out  frequently  ?" 

"  Yes ;  often.  She  seemed  to  have  a  good  deal  of  business 
on  hand." 

"  And  always  took  the  child  with  her?" 


226  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  Always." 

"  Did  she  feed  it,  or  nurse  it  herself?     Or,  don't  you  know?" 

"  She  was  supplied  with  milk  every  day ;  no  doubt  for  the 
child." 

"  She  left  for  Buffalo  yesterday,  you  say  ?*' 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Then  I  must  follow  after  her  in  the  next  train,"  said  Mr. 
Milford,  turning  away,  and  leaving  the  house.  He  walked  un- 
steadily, like  a  man  half  intoxicated.  He  had  hoped  to  find  the 
woman  at  the  hotel,  and  end  all  suspense  in  regard  to  his  child, 
as  far  as  she  was  concerned.  But  she  had  flown,  and  was  a 
day  in  advance  of  him  on  her  way  westward,  and  might  elude 
all  his  efforts  to  find  her. 

With  the  next  train  of  cars,  Mr.  Milford,  after  writing  back 
to  his  friends  in  New  York,  started  for  Buffalo.  On  the  way  he 
enquired  of  conductors,  agents,  and  all  others  likely  to  have  no- 
ticed the  woman,  if  she  had  been  seen,  but  no  one  remembered 
having  observed  her.  In  Buffalo,  where  he  remained  for  two 
days,  he  could  get  no  intelligence  whatever  of  the  individual  he 
sought ;  and  at  last,  with  a  sick  heart,  he  turned  his  face  home- 
ward, lingering  a  day  at  almost  every  town  on  the  line  be- 
tween Buffalo  and  Albany,  but  nowhere  finding  a  trace  of  the 
woman. 

After  an  absence  of  three  weeks,  Mr.  Milford  returned  to  New 
York,  looking  so  worn  and  pale  that  his  friends  met  him  with 
expressions  of  concern  at  the  sad  change  in  his  appearance.  He 
found  his  wife,  as  he  had  previously  learned  from  letters  that 
awaited  him  at  Albany,  partially  recovered  from  her  attack  of 
illness,  but  with  a  mind  weak  and  wandering.  She  compre- 
hended, to  some  extent,  the  reason  of  his  absence,  and  when  the 
fruitless  result  was  given  in  answer  to  her  inquiries,  she  wept 
freely,  but  the  grief  did  not  penetrate  deeply. 

There  was  now  a  double  weight  on  the  mind  of  Mr.  Milford ; 
a  weight  that  at  times  he  could  hardly  bear 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  227 


CHAPTER  V. 

One  morning,  two  or  three  days  after  Mr.  Milford's  return, 
and  before  he  had  been  able  to  determine  in  what  direction  next 
to  go  in  search  of  his  child,  a  gentleman  came  into  his  place  of 
business  and  said,  with  some  exciement  of  manner, 
"  As  I  came  down  Broadway  just  now,  I  saw  a  wretched  look- 
ing woman  sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  Society  Library  Build- 
ings, with  a  young  babe  in  her  arms.  I  am  sure,  from  its  ap- 
pearance, that  it  was  not  her  own.  It  had  a  pure  white  skin, 
and  lay  dead  asleep  in  her  arms,  looking  more  like  a  beauti- 
ful wax  figure  than  a  living  babe.  After  asking  a  few  ques- 
tions, I  gave  her  a  shilling  as  an  inducement  to  remain,  in  hope 
of  exciting  the  pity  of  others,  and  then  hurried  off  to  see  you." 

Mr.  Milford  stopped  neither  to  thank  the  individual  who 
brought  him  the  information,  nor  waited  to  hear  more,  but  start- 
ing up,  rushed  rather  than  walked  from  his  store.  He  waited 
for  no  omnibus — that  mode  of  conveyance  was  too  slow — but 
sprang  away  at  a  rapid  speed.  The  woman  was  still  sitting 
where  the  person  who  brought  the  information  had  seen  her.  A 
single  glance  at  the  babe  in  her  arms  was  enough.  It  was  not 
his  child  ;  for  it  was  older  by  at  least  three  months. 

Satisfied  on  this  point,  Mr.  Milford  asked  no  questions,  but 
passed  on  with  a  faintness  at  his  heart.  A  downward  stage  con- 
veyed him  back  to  his  store  :  and  soon  after  his  return  there  the 
friend  who  had  brought  information  about  the  woman  and  child 
came  in.  .. 

1  Did  you  see  them  ?"  he  asked  with  earnestness. 

'  Yes.  But  it  isn't  my  child,"  replied  Mr.  Milford,  in  a  sad 
vo  ce,'and  with  a  mournful  shake  of  the  head. 

'  Are  you  sure  ?" 

1  Oh,  yes.  Too  sure  !  Could  I  be  mistaken  in  my  own 
babe?" 

"  Even  if  it  be  not  your  child,  I  am  certain  that  it  does  not 
belong  to  the  woman  who  has  it  in  possession." 

"  And  so  am  I,"  said  Mr.  Milford,  arousing  as  he  spoke  from  . 
the  lethargy  into  which  his  mind  had  fallen.  "  We  must  see  to 
this.  As  I  would  have  others  do  in  regard  to  my  lost  one,  so 


228  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

will  I  do  by  this  child  under  the  supposition  that  it  has  beei* 
stolen  away  from  its  parents.  The  woman  must  be  taken  up 
and  rigidly  questioned  by  the  police.  Every  woman  who  sits 
begging  with  a  babe  in  her  possession,  ought  to  be  arrested  and 
made  to  prove  that  it  is  her  own,  or  the  horrible  crime  of  child 
stealing  will  be  encouraged  and  spread  with  fearful  rapidity." 

"  You  are  right,"  replied  the  friend.  "  In  this  I  agree  with 
you,  and  will  join  you  in  urging  a  rigid  scrutiny  into  the  pre- 
tensions of  this  woman.  Who  knows  to  what  it  may  lead,  or 
what  revelations  it  may  bring  forth  ?" 

"  True !  True !"  said  Mr.  Milford,  quickly,  catching  with 
eagerness  at  this  suggestion.  "  There  may  be  a  gang  of  these 
wretches,  and  if  so,  the  arrest  of  one  will  probably  throw  light 
upon  the  doings  of  all." 

Information  against  the  woman  as  resting  under  the  suspicion 
of  child  stealing,  being  laid  before  one  of  the  police  magistrates, 
an  order  was  made  out  for  her  apprehension,  and  she  was 
brought  up  by  an  officer.  She  seemed  much  alarmed  at  first, 
but  gradually  gained  self-possession  and  boldness.  Mr.  Milford 
was  present  at  her  examination. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?"  asked  the  magistrate. 

"  Mrs.  Mallon,"  was  replied,  without  hesitation. 

"  Is  that  your  child  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  How  old  is  it  ?" 

"  Five  months." 

"  Do  you  belong  to  this  city  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?" 

"  I'm  stopping  now  away  up  in  Second  Avenue." 

"  You  are  certain  that  this  is  your  own  child  ?" 

"  Indeed,  and  I  am." 

"  There  has  been  a  doubt  expressed  on  the  subject." 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  know  better  than  any  one  else,"  said  the 
woman  boldly. 

"  I  must  have  evidence  of  the  fact,"  said  the  magistrate. 
11  Can  you  produce  such  evidence  ?" 

"  Certainly  I  can."  The  woman  did  not  speak  so  confidently 
as  at  first. 

"  Very  well.  Let  me  have  the  name  of  some  one  that  can  be 
summoned  to  give  testimony  in  proof  of  what  you  assert." 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  229 

After  some  hesitation,  and  not  until  a  threat  of  commitment 
was  uttered  by  the  magistrate,  the  woman  gave  the  name  of  a 
person,  for  whom  a  summons  was  made  out  and  given  to  an  offi- 
cer. That  official  did  not  have  to  go  to  Second  Avenue.  The 
witness  lived  close  by  and  was  soon  produced.  She  proved  to 
be  a  girl  not  over  fourteen,  who  looked  pale  and  frightened  when 
she  was  brought  in.  The  woman  threw  upon  her  an  earnest  and 
meaning  look  as  she  entered. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?"  asked  the  magistrate. 

"  Jane  Grant,"  replied  the  girl,  in  a  low,  unsteady  voice. 

The  book  was  handed  to  her  and  a  solemn  oath  admin- 
istered. 

"  Jane,"  said  the  magistrate,  "  I  now  want  you  to  under- 
stand, that  whatever  testimony  you  give  here,  must  be  the  truth, 
and  only  the  truth.  You  have  taken  an  oath  on  the  holy  Word 
of  God  that  you  will  give  correct  evidence,  and  your  failing  to 
do  so  will  be  perjury,  a  crime  punished  by  years  of  imprison- 
ment." 

He  then  looked  at  the  person  who  had  been  arrested,  and 
said, — 

"  Do  you  know  this  woman  ?" 

"  Yes,"  was  replied. 

"Where  does  she  live?" 

"  In  Pearl  street." 

"Is  that  her  child?" 

The  girl  was  silent. 

"  Answer  me  !"  said  the  magistrate,  sternly.  "  Is  that  her 
child  ?" 

«•  No." 

"Whose  child  is  it?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Where  did  she  get  it  ?" 

"  She  brought  it  home  one  day  last  week.  But  I  don't  know 
where  she  got  it  from." 

"  Are  you  a  relative  of  this  woman  ?" 

"  She  is  my  aunt." 

"  Do  you  live  with  her  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  What  employment  do  you  follow  ?" 

"  Sometimes  I  take  out  the  baby,  and  sometimes  I  stay  at 
home." 

20 


230  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

Did  your  aunt  ever  have  a  baby  to  beg  with  before  this  one  ?" 

Yes." 

Was  it  her  own  ?" 

No,  sir." 

Where  did  she  get  it  from  ?" 

From  a  woman  in  Hartford,  where  we  lived." 

Was  it  the  woman's  baby  ?" 

No,  sir." 

Whose  was  it?"- 
"  It  belonged,  I  think,  to  some  rich  family  there,  that  didn't 
want  to  own  it,  and  got  the  woman  to  take  it  away." 
"  And  she  gave  it  to  your  aunt  ?" 
"  Yes,  sir." 
"  Where  is  it  now  ?" 
"  It  died  last  month." 
"Was  it  sick  long?" 

"  It  was  sick  most  all  the  time  we  had  it." 
"  Did  your  aunt  give  it  medicine  ?" 
"  Sometimes." 
"  What  did  she  give  it  ?" 
"  Sometimes  paregoric." 
"  Anything  else  ?" 
"  Godfrey's  cordial." 
"  Well,  what  besides  ?" 
"  A  little  carminative." 
"  And  laudanum,  too,  I  suppose?" 
"  Yes,  sir." 
"  And  it  died  ?" 
"  Yes,  sir." 

4  No  wonder,"  said  the  magistrate,  taking  a  long,  sighing 
breath. 

"And  this  child,  also,"  he  resumed,  "takes  laudanum  and 
paregoric  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  it's  the  only  way  to  keep  it  from  crying." 

"  Did  it  have  laudanum  this  morning?" 

"  Yes." 

"  How  many  drops  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Did  you  see  it  given  ?" 

"  Yes." 

The  child  was  now  taken  from  the  arms  of  the  woman  by  the 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  231 

magistrate,  and  found  to  be  in  a  heavy  sleep,  or  rather  torpor. 
It  was  a  fair  and  beautiful  babe,  with  high  forehead,  well  form- 
ed head,  and  fine  countenance.  On  examining  its  clothing,  one 
or  two  articles  were  observed  to  be  of  the  finest  material,  and 
tastefully  made. 

"  Had  it  this  on  when  your  aunt  brought  it  home  ?"  asked  the 
magistrate,  pointing  to  one  of  these  articles. 

"  Yes  sir,"  replied  the  girl. 

"  Woman  !"  said  the  magistrate,  sternly,  "  tell  me  ! — to  whom 
does  this  child  belong?" 

The  wretch,  who  was  by  this  time  thoroughly  frightened, 
stammered  out  some  incoherent  reply. 

"  There  has  been  falsehood  enough,"  said  the  magistrate — 
"  let  there  be  no  equivocation  now  ;  answer  my  question,  or  I 
will  commit  you  to  prison.  To  whom  does  this  child  belong  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  ?" 

"  Where  did  you  get  it  ?" 

"  From  a  woman  in  Sullivan  street." 

"  It  was  not  her  child  ?" 

"  No." 

"  What  is  her  name  ?" 

"  Dixon." 

"  In  what  part  of  Sullivan  street  does  she  live  ?" 

The  woman  did  not  reply  to  this  question. 

"  Why  do  you  not  answer  ?  I  want  the  number  of  the  house 
in  which  the  woman  from  whom  you  obtained  this  child  lives." 

"  I  don't  know  the  number." 

"  Near  what  street  is  it  ?" 

"  I  can't  remember  the  name  of  the  street." 

"  Can  you  go  to  the  house  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  Very  well.  Jackson,  call  a  cab  ;  we  must  see  the  end  of 
this  matter." 

While  the  officer  was  gone  for  a  cab,  the  magistrate  filled  up 
a  summons  for  Mrs.  Dixon.  On  his  return  he  said,  as  he  hand- 
ed him  the  paper — 

"  Take  that  woman  in  the  cab,  and  let  her  show  you  where 
the  person  lives  for  whom  this  summons  is  made  out. 

The  officer  took  the  woman  by  the  arm,  led  her  out  to  the  cab, 
and  thrusting  her  in,  entered  after  her.  The  driver  was  ordered 
to  take  them  to  Sullivan  street. 


232  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

Nearly  an  hour  elapsed  before  the  officer  returned,  an  hour  of 
anxious  suspense  to  Mr.  Milford,  whose  mind  was  clinging  to 
the  hope  that  some  facts  would  be  elicited  during  the  course  of 
this  investigation,  throwing  light  upon  his  own  loss,  or  giving 
some  clue  by  which  to  discover  and  reclaim  his  child.  A  fur- 
ther examination  of  the  girl  was  made  during  the  absence  of  the 
officer,  by  which  it  was  ascertained  that  her  aunt  had  only  been 
in  New  York  a  short  time,  whither  she  came  from  Philadelphia, 
on  the  death  of  the  child  obtained  in  Hartford.  This  child,  it 
appeared,  had  been  sickly  from  the  first,  and  gradually  pined 
away  until  death  took  it  kindly  by  the  hand,  and  lifted  it  from  a 
world  of  suffering  into  one  of  comfort  and  peace. 

"  How  many  infants  has  your  aunt  obtained  and  used  in  beg- 
ging?" asked  the  magistrate. 

"  Four,"  replied  the  girl. 

"Did  they  all  die?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  How  many  died?" 

"  Only  one." 

"  Where  are  the  others  ?" 

"  One  was  taken  from  her  in  Worcester." 

"  By  whom  ?" 

"  By  the  Guardians  of  the  Poor,  I  think  aunt  said  they 
were." 

"  What  became  of  the  other  ?" 

The  girl  did  not  reply. 

"  What  became  of  the  other  ?"  said  the  magistrate,  in  a  tone 
of  authority. 

"  It  was  sold,"  answered  the  girl,  in  a  hesitating  voice. 

"  Sold  !     To  whom  ?" 

"  To  a  woman  in  Boston." 

"  Why  was  it  sold  ?" 

"  The  woman  had  just  lost  her  baby.  Aunt  went  to  her  house, 
begging,  and  the  women  offered  to  take  the  child  and  raise  it  as 
her  own.  But  aunt  said  she  wouldn't  part  with  it.  It  was  a 
nice,  pretty  baby,  and  the  woman  wanted  it  very  badly,  and  so 
she  offered  twenty  dollars  for  it.  Aunt  thought  she  could  get 
more,  and  she  did.  The  woman  at  last  gave  her  forty  dollars, 
and  took  the  child.  I  was  sorry  when  we  parted  with  it,  for  I 
loved  that  baby." 

"Whose  child  was  it?" 


THE    CHILD   STEALER.  233 

"  It  belonged  to  a  poor  woman  who  lived  over  in  South  Bos- 
ton. She  gave  it  to  aunt." 

"Why  did  she  do  that?" 

"  She  wasn't  a  good  woman.  She  drank  liquor  and  swore. 
I  never  saw  such  a  wicked  woman." 

"  Where  did  your  aunt  get  the  other  child  ?  The  one  that  was 
taken  from  her  in  Worcester?" 

"From  the  almshouse?" 

"  Of  New  York  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  How  ?" 

"  She  went  there,  one  day,  in  a  carriage,  all  dressed  up  in 
black  mourning,  like  a  lady,  and  said  that  she  wanted  to  get  an 
infant  to  adopt,  as  her  own.  She  told  them  that  her  name  was 
S ,  and  that  she  lived  in  Broadway,  mentioning  the  num- 
ber at  which  Mrs.  S ,  a  rich  lady  lives.  They  told  her 

to  come  on  the  next  day,  and  she  went,  and  they  let  her  take  a 
baby. 

"  Was  your  aunt  kind  to  these  poor  little  creatures  ?" 

"  Yes, — I  suppose  so.  I  loved  them  all,  and  nursed  them, 
and  took  all  the  care  I  could  of  them." 

In  the  midst  of  these  questions  and  answers,  the  officer  re,- 
turned,  bringing  with  him  the  person  for  whom  he  had  the  sum- 
mons ;  but  the  other  woman  had  managed  to  spring  from  the 
cab,  as  he  left  it  to  go  the  door  of  the  house  where  they  stopped, 
and  make  her  escape. 

Mrs.  Dixon,  who  accompanied  the  officer,  was  a  well-dressed 
woman,  rather  past  the  middle  age.  She  came  hurriedly  into 
the  office,  and  was  evidently  under  strong  agitation.  Without 
noticing  the  magistrate,  she  looked  quickly  and  eagerly  around, 
and  darted  toward  the  child  the  instant  her  eyes  rested  upon  it. 
She  regarded  it  only  for  an  instant,  when,  satisfied  with  the  re- 
sult, she  uttered  a  cry  of  joy,  and  snatching  it  from  the  arms  of 
the  girl,  clasped  it  with  a  wild  gesture  to  her  bosom,  where  she 
held  it  in  a  long,  eager  embrace.  Then  her  heart  melted,  and 
tears  of  joy  and  thankfulness  gushed  over  her  cheeks.  After  she 
was  more  composed,  the  magistrate  said — 

"  Your  name  is  Mrs.  Dixon,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  It  is,"  replied  the  woman. 

"  Is  that  your  child  ?" 

"  No,  sir." 

20* 


234  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"Whose  is  it  ?" 

"  It's  a  child  given  me  to  nurse.  Its  mother  is  dead,  and  its 
father  placed  it  in  my  hands  to  raise  it  for  him.  Last  week  my 
little  girl  was  sitting  in  the  passage,  holding  it  in  her  arms.  The 
street  door  was  open.  A  strange  woman  stopped  and  talked  to 
her  about  the  baby.  Then  she  took  it  up  and  played  with  it, 
and  while  doing  so,  asked  my  daughter  to  call  me,  as  she 
wanted  to  see  me.  I  happened  to  be  up-stairs.  My  little  girl 
came,  and  said  there  was  a  woman  down  stairs  who  wanted  me. 
'  Where's  the  baby  ?'  I  asked.  '  The  woman  has  it,'  she  said. 
I  went  down  quickly,  but  there  was  no  one  there.  I  ran  to  the 
front  door,  but  could  see  no  one  in  the  street  with  the  child.  I 
felt  wild.  I  went  back  into  the  house,  and  looked  again  in  the 
parlors.  The  woman  was  not  there.  Then  I  rushed  into  the 
street,  and  ran  around  the  whole  block,  and  up  one  street  and 
down  another,  like  a  mad  woman.  But  it  was  no  use.  The 
babe  was  gone !  Oh,  sir !  I  thought  I  would  have  died.  Since 
then,  I  have  hunted  every  where,  but  to  no  purpose.  I  dared 
not  tell  the  father.  The  babe  was  his  idol ;  and  the  blow  would 
have  been  terrible.  Day  after  day  I  lived  in  hope  of  finding  the 
lost  one,  and  in  dread  lest  the  father  should  come.  Thank 
Heaven  !  He  knows  nothing  of  what  has  occurred,  and  I  have 
recovered  his  treasure.  Oh,  I  cannot  be  sufficiently  thankful !" 

And  the  woman  wept  and  sobbed  half  hysterically. 

"  What  is  the  name  of  the  child's  father?"  asked  the  magis- 
trate. 

The  woman  mentioned  the  name.  He  was  a  stranger  to  all 
present.  After  fully  satisfying  himself  that  the  statement  made 
was  true,  the  magistrate  permitted  the  woman  to  take  the  child 
away.  But  the  girl  was  retained  in  custody  for  the  present.  By 
her  own  confession  she  had  been  a  party  to  a  most  flagrant  out- 
rage upon  the  rights  of  society,  and  the  accomplice  of  a  woman 
who  had  been  guilty  of  the  dreadful  crime  of  child-stealing, 
and  the  magistrate  did  not  feel  at  liberty  to  let  her  at  once  go 
free,  although  she  did  not  appear  to  be  either  vicious  or  confirmed 
in  evil  ways. 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  235 


CHAPTER  VI. 


After  the  girl  was  committed  to  prison,  Mr.  Milford  visited 
her  and  asked  her  many  questions,  in  the  hope  of  eliciting  some- 
thing that  would  enable  him  to  get  upon  the  track  of  his  lost 
child.  But  no  longer  on  oath  before  a  legal  functionary,  she 
maintained  a  rigid  silence.  At  length  Mr.  Milford  said  to  her — 

"  I  have  had  an  infant  stolen,  and  the  loss  has  bereft  its 
mother  of  reason  and  driven  me  almost  mad.  Do  you  know 
where  it  is  ?  Can  you  help  me  to  find  it  ?  If  you  can,  I  will 
procure  your  release  from  this  place,  and  reward  you  with  hun- 
dreds of  dollars." 

The  girl  listened  with  an  interest  not  before  manifested. 

"  Speak !"  he  said  eagerly.  "  Do  you  know  any  thing  about 
my  child  ?" 

The  prisoner  shook  her  head. 

"  How  long  since  you  lost  it  ?"  she  inquired. 

"  It  is  now  four  weeks.  A  girl  about  your  age  hired  herself 
to  my  wife  as  a  nurse,  and  the  first  time  she  was  sent  out  with 
the  child,  carried  it  away." 

"  What  was  her  name  ?"  asked  the  prisoner,  evincing  some 
interest. 

"  She  called  herself  Mary  Smith." 

"  Was  she  a  tall  girl  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  And  slender  ?" 

«  Yes— yes,"  quickly  replied  Mr.  Milford.  "  And  had  a  thin, 
pale  face,  and  deep  blue  eyes.  Do  you  know  her  ?" 

"  She  was  good-looking  ?" 

"  Quite  so." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  think  I  know  who  you  mean." 

"  Do  you  know  where  she  is  ?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"  When  did  you  see  her  last  ?" 

"  I  have  n't  seen  her  for  nearly  a  year.  But  I  heard,  yester- 
day, that  she  was  in  Albany  a  few  days  ago." 

Mr.  Milford  struck  his  hands  together,  and  exclaimed — 


236  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  Then  it  was  my  child  !  Oh,  why  was  I  but  a  day  too 
late!" 

"  Who  told  you  that  she  was  in  Albany  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Mil 
ford,  as  soon  as  had  thus  given  expression  to  his  feelings. 

"  A  woman  who  had  just  come  down  from  there." 

"  Where  is  that  woman  ?" 

"  She  went  on  to  Philadelphia  this  morning." 

"  What  did  she  say  about  the  girl  ?" 

"  Nothing  particular ;  only  she  happened  to  see  her  in  the 
street." 

"  Is  she,  too,  a  child  stealer  ?"  said  Mr.  Milford,  with  much 
severity  of  tone. 

The  girl  appeared  to  shrink  from  him,  and  made  no  reply. 

"  Who  is  the  person  that  was  with  her  ?"  asked  Mr.  Milford, 
in  a  more  conciliatory  manner. 

Still  the  girl  was  silent,  and  there  appeared  to  be  a  conscious- 
ness about  her  of  having  already  said  too  much. 

"  Jane,"  said  Mr.  Milford,  speaking  much  more  kindly  than 
before, — "  I  do  not  think  you  a  hardened,  cruel-minded  girl, 
although  you  have  been  a  party,  to  some  extent,  with  your  aunt, 
who  has  escaped,  in  a  most  wicked  and  cruel  business.  You 
are  in  prison  and  without  friends,  and  I  can  serve  you.  On  the 
other  hand,  my  infant  has  been  stolen  from  me,  and  you  can  aid 
me  in  its  recovery.  Will  you  not  do  so?  I  can  easily  procure 
your  release  from  this  place.  A  word  will  do  it.  The  work  in 
which  I  wish  you  to  engage,  is  one  of  mercy.  I  ask  you  to  aid 
me  in  restoring  a  lost  child  to  its  mother's  arms.  As  to  the  re- 
ward, let  it  be  anything  you  choose  to  claim,  so  that  it  is  within 
the  compass  of  my  ability." 

The  girl  fixed  her  eyes  upon  Mr.  Milford  and  looked  at 
him  steadily  while  he  thus  spoke,  but  she  did  not  make  any 
answer. 

"  Who  is  the  woman  in  company  with  her  ?"  Mr.  Milford 
now  repeated  this  question. 

"  Her  mother,"  said  Jane. 

"  Her  mother  ?" 

"  The  woman  who  raised  her.  Not  her  real  mother  I  be- 
lieve." 

"  What  is  her  name  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  her  real  name." 

"  By  what  name  does  she  go  ?" 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  237 

"  By  the  name  of  Mrs.  Green  sometimes,  and  sometimes  by 
the  name  of  Mrs.  Black." 

"  Mrs.  Green !  The  very  name  she  assumed  in  Albany," 
said  Mr.  Milford,  moving  about  the  narrow  apartment  in  which 
the  girl  was  confined,  in  much  agitation. 

"  You  know  her  when  you  see  her  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.     Very  well." 

"  Where  do  you  think  she  now  is  ?  Or,  in  what  direction  do 
you  think  she  has  gone  ?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"  Jane,"  said  Mr.  Milford,  again  endeavoring  to  reach  her 
by  some  appeal.  "  Jane ;  do  you  remember  how  sorry  you 
were  to  part  with  the  baby  your  aunt  sold  to  the  woman  in 
Boston  ?" 

The  girl  did  not  reply  in  words  ;  she  only  looked  an  assent. 

"  You  loved  that  baby  did  you  not  ?" 

She  slightly  inclined  her  head,  and  appeared  disturbed. 

"  But  you  had  to  part  with  it.  Still  you  knew  it  passed  into 
good  hands,  and  would  be  cared  for  much  more  tenderly  than 
it  was  by  your  aunt.  Now,  suppose  Jane,  when  you  parted 
with  that  baby  you  had  known  that  those  who  took  it  would 
treat  it  cruelly  ;  would  neglect  it,  and  let  its  innocent,  helpless 
life  be  one  of  suffering.  How  would  you  now  feel  ?" 

Quick  flushes  passed  over  the  girl's  face.  There  was  a  glow 
of  indignant  feeling,  followed  by  an  expression  of  pain. 

"  Think  then,"  pursued  Mr.  Milford,  "  what  agony  the  moth- 
er of  a  babe  only  a  few  months  old  must  suffer,  when  that  babe 
has  been  stolen  from  her,  and  its  fate,  from  the  hour  it  disap- 
peared, all  in  darkness.  What  you  have  felt  is  nothing.  It  is 
pleasure  compared  to  the  anguish  of  that  mother's  heart !  Pity 
the  mother  thus  bereaved.  Let  the  dreadful  agony  and  suspense 
she  is  suffering  plead  for  her.  Your  heart  cannot  be  made  of 
stone.  You  are  too  young  to  have  extinguished  all  human  sym- 
pathies. Jane ! — " 

But,  before  he  could  utter  another  word  the  unhappy  girl  let 
her  face  sink  into  her  outspread  hands,  and  burst  into  an  irre- 
pressible fit  of  weeping.  This  was  a  good  omen,  and  hope- 
fully did  Mr.  Milford  wait  until  the  wild  excitement  of  her 
feeling  had  subsided.  He  then  said,  in  a  low  voice,  meant  to 
inspire  confidence,  and  secure  the  answers  he  wanted. 

"  Do  you  think,  Jane,  they  will  ill-treat  our  babe  ?" 


238         SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER. 

"I  would  not  trust  that  woman — she  is  a  bad  woman — "  re- 
plied Jane,  with  some  warmth.  "  But  Anne  will  be  kind  to  it. 
She  loves  little  babes,  and  will  not  let  them  be  ill-used." 

"  You  are  certain  of  that  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.     I  know  Anne  will  be  good  to  the  child." 

"  The  woman  may  ill-use  it  in  spite  of  her." 

"  No ;  I  am  sure  she  will  not." 

"  But  Anne  was  not  with  the  woman  in  Albany.  I  asked  if 
there  had  been  any  one  in  company  with  her  at  the  hotel,  and 
they  said  no." 

"  She  was  there.  I  am  certain  of  it.  Indeed,  I  know  they 
always  go  together,  though,  sometimes,  they  do  not  appear  to 
know  each  other,  and  stay  at  separate  places.  You  may  be  sure 
she  was  there  and  is  with  her  now,  wherever  she  is." 

"  The  woman  left  Albany  for  Buffalo." 

"  She  said  she  was  going  there,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes." 

«  Then  she  didn't  go." 

"  Why  do  you  affirm  this  ?" 

"  She  wished  to  put  any  one  who  might  follow  her — you  for 
instance — upon  the  wrong  track." 

"  Where  do  you  think  she  has  gone  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell.  She  may  have  gone  to  Springfield, 
or  to  Boston  ;  or  she  may  have  come  down  the  river,  passing  you 
as  you  went  up,  and  may  now  be  in  Philadelphia  or  Baltimore." 

"  Then  you  have  no  particular  information  to  give  me?" 

"  No,  sir ;  none  at  all." 

Mr.  Milford  was  seriously  disappointed  at  this  answer.  He 
had  expected  to  elicit  information  that  would  enable  him  to  get 
upon  the  track  of  the  fugitive  nurse,  and  discover  her  almost 
immediately.  But  this  hope  was  dashed  to  the  earth.  From 
the  manner  of  the  reply,  he  was  satisfied  she  spoke  the  truth, 
and  that  she  did  not  really  know  any  thing  more  of  the  persons 
he  wished  to  find  that  what  she  had  alleged. 

"  If  you  were  in  search  of  this  woman,  in  which  direction 
would  you  first  go?"  asked  Mr.  Milford,  as  soon  as  the  dis- 
turbed state  of  his  mind,  produced  by  the  girl's  last  reply  had,  in 
a  measure,  subsided. 

To  this  question  Jane  made  no  answer  for  some  time.  Mr. 
Milford  repeated  it.  She  then  said — 

"  It  is  more  than  probable  that  she  has  gone  to  Philadelphia." 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  239 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?"  asked  Mr.  Milford. 

"  Because  she  is  not  so  well  known  there  as  she  is  in  Boston 
and  the  towns  on  to  the  East.  She  has,  I  know,  been  twice  taken 
up  in  Boston  for  wrong  acts,  and  is  so  well  known  to  the  police 
in  that  city,  that  I  am  sure  she  has  not  gone  there  with  the 


Then  you  think  it  more  than  probable  that  she  is  in  Phila- 
delphia ?" 

"  I  should,  if  I  were  in  search  of  her,  go  first  to  that  city." 

"Will  you  not  go  with  me  and  help  me  to  find  her?"  said 
Mr.  Milford. 

There  was  an  evident  struggle  in  the  girl's  mind,  but  of  what 
precise  nature  Mr.  Milford  was  not  able  to  determine.  She  sat 
with  her  eyes  upon  the  floor,  while  rapid  and  strongly  marked 
changes  passed  over  her  face — a  face  not  coarse  and  sensual, 
but  delicate  in  outline,  and  marked  with  lineaments  of  more 
than  common  interest.  As  Mr.  Milford  looked  earnestly  into 
her  young  countenance,  he  could  not  but  observe  the  finely  pen- 
cilled eyebrows ;  the  long  dark  lashes  that  drooped  upon  her 
cheeks ;  the  soft,  flexible  mouth,  so  finely  feminine  in  its  ex- 
pression ;  nor  help  feeling  that  the  girl  was,  by  circumstances, 
in  a  relation  to  the  world  entirely  at  variance  with  her  true 
character. 

"  Will  you  not  go  with  me  ?"  he  repeated,  "  and  use  your 
best  efforts  to  restore  to  us  our  lost  child.  Place  us  under  this 
great  obligation,  and  you  will  make  faster  friends  than  you  have 
yet  known." 

"  What  can  I  do  ?"  said  the  girl,  in  a  low,  and,  to  the  ears 
of  Mr.  Milford,  a  sad  voice. 

"  You  can  go  with  me  and  recognize  the  woman  when  we 
meet  her." 

There  still  seemed  to  be  a  strong  conflict  going  on  in  the  mind 
of  the  girl.  This  continued  for  some  time. 

"  I  will  do  what  I  can,"  she  at  length  said,  with  the  air  of 
one  who  had  forced  herself  to  do  right  against  strong  opposition. 

"  I  will  see  you  again  in  a  very  little  while,"  returned  Mr. 
Milford,  moving  away  as  he  spoke,  and  hurrying  from  the  room 
in  which  the  young  girl  was  confined. 


SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

It  was  three  months  from  the  time  the  child  of  Mr  Milford  had 
disappeared,  that  the  scene  we  are  about  to  describe  occurred 
in  a  small  town  in  Pennsylvania. 

By  the  stage  from  the  West,  on  the  afternoon  of  a  sultry  day, 
a  middle  aged  woman  with  an  infant  in  her  arms,  accompanied 
by  a  young  girl,  arrived  at  one  of  the  public  houses  in  the  vil- 
lage just  alluded  to,  and  requested  a  room,  as  it  was  her  inten- 
tion to  stay  there  for  a  few  days,  until  the  babe,  that  was  ill, 
should  become  better.  As  soon  as  they  were  alone  in  the 
chamber  assigned  to  them,  the  younger  of  the  two  females  took 
the  child,  and  after  removing  its  cap  and  taking  off  a  little  coat 
that  it  had  worn  during  their  ride  in  the  stage,  poured  some  cool 
water  in  a  basin  and  bathed  its  face  and  neck.  The  child  was 
in  a  deep  sleep,  from  which  even  the  cold  water  did  not  arouse 
it.  It  was  pale  and  much  emaciated  ;  and  there  was  a  tran- 
sparency about  its  pinched  up  nose  and  white  lips  that  gave  them 
more  the  appearance  of  alabaster  than  living  flesh. 

While  the  girl  was  thus  engaged,  the  woman  was  changing 
her  clothes  and  preparing  herself  to  go  out.  After  the  former 
had  done  all  that  she  could  to  make  the  infant  comfortable,  she 
laid  it  gently  upon  the  bed  and  stood  for  some  time  looking  upon 
it  with  a  sad  and  pitying  face.  While  thus  engaged  the  woman 
came  up,  with  her  bonnet  on,  having  entirely  changed  her  dress, 
and  said, 

"  How  does  she  seem  now,  Anne  ?" 

The  girl  looked  up,  and  now,  for  the  first  time,  saw  that  her 
companion  had  prepared  herself  to  go  out. 

"  She's  very  sick,"  was  answered — "  very  sick.  It  won't  do 
to  drag  her  about  any  more  until  she  is  better.  It  will  kill  her." 

"  Oh,  there's  no  danger  of  that.  She's  in  a  sound  sleep  ROW, 
and  will  remain  so  for  the  next  four  or  five  hours  at  least.  She'll 
be  just  as  comfortable  in  my  arms  as  she  will  be  upon  the  bed 
here." 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  replied  the  girl  firmly.  "  There's  no  need 
of  being  in  such  a  hurry.  It's  just  as  easy  to  stay  here  a  week 
as  two  or  three  days." 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  241 

«  We  can't  remain  here  longer  than  day  after  to-morrow," 

said  the  woman  in  answer.  "  Besides,  Judge  B is  at  home 

to-day,  and  I  must  see  him.  To-morrow  he  may  be  gone  to 
L where  the  court  is  about  sitting." 

"  Let  Judge  B go  then,"  returned  the  girl.  "  But  as 

for  taking  the  child  out  to-day,  it  must  not  be  done." 

And  as  she  said  this,  she  bent  down  over  it  so  low  as  almost 
to  touch  its  body  with  her  bosom. 

"  Don't  act  silly!"  said  the  woman  angrily.  "  I  am  tired  of 
all  this.  The  child  is  only  stupid  from  the  over  dose  of  laud- 
anum that  I  gave  it  to-day.  There's  nothing  else  the  matter." 

"  If  it  recovers  from  the  effects  of  that  dose  I  shall  be  glad." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"  Doesn't  it  look  like  a  dead  child  now  ?" 

"  It's  only  in  a  deep  sleep — nothing  more.  But  what  is  all 
this  nonsense  about  ?"  The  girl's  voice,  as  she  last  spoke,  fell 
off  into  a  sob,  and  now  the  tears  were  dropping  from  her  eyes 
upon  the  face  of  the  infant.  "  Here,  let  me  have  the  child.  I 

must  see  Judge  B this  afternoon."  And  she  shook  the  girl 

by  the  shoulders,  and  attempted  to  push  her  aside.  But  Anne 
moved  not ;  or,  rather  bent  nearer  to  her  charge,  saying,  at  the 
same  time,  in  a  very  decided  way, 

"  It's  no  use  ;  the  child  shall  not  be  murdered !  Heaven 
knows  it  has  suffered  enough  already  !  I  would  give  worlds  if 
it  were  only  back  again  safe  on  its  mother's  bosom." 

"  Are  you  mad  ?"  exclaimed  the  woman,  strongly  excited. 

"  I  was  rnad  when  I  consented  to  do  so  great  a  wrong  to 
this  innocent  babe  as  to  take  it  from  its  mother — an  act  of  which 
I  have  repented  a  thousand  times." 

"  Anne !  I  wrill  not  have  you  cross  me  in  this  way!" 

"  In  what  way  ?"  said  the  girl,  rising  up  quickly,  and  con- 
fronting the  woman,  while  the  tears  that  had  been  in  her  eyes 
seemed  to  be  consumed  instantly  by  the  fiery  flash  with  which 
they  were  lighted. 

"  By  interfering  with  my  movements  at  this  most  important 
point." 

"Mother!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  manifesting  strong  excite- 
ment ;  "  I  have  yielded  much  and  sacrificed  much  to  your 
wishes.  For  years  I  have  acted  with  violence  to  my  own  feel- 
ings, and  done  wrong,  conscious  all  the  while  of  the  wrong. 
But  this  cannot  be  much  longer.  There  is  something  owed  to 
21 


242  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 


myself  and  something  owed  to  humanity.  I  grow  daily  and 
hourly  more  conscious  of  this.  Do  not  press  me  now  too  close- 
ly, or  you  may  snap  the  tie  that  binds  us  together  and  throw  me 
from  you.  This  child  is  ill — too  ill  to  be  disturbed.  She  needs 
a  physcian,  and  must  have  one.  Instead  of  going  to  Judge 
B 's  you  ought  to  go  for  a  doctor." 

"  You  talk  like  a  simpleton,  Anne  !  Haven't  I  said  that  the 
child  is  only  stupified  from  laudanum." 

"  You  can  say  what  you  please,  mother,"  returned  the  girl,  in 
a  resolute  tone  ;*  "  but  when  you  say  this  child  is  not  sick,  your 
words  make  no  impression  on  me.  I  know  that  it  is  sick,  and, 
T  fear,  dangerously  so." 

"  Anne !  I  have  no  time  to  parley  with  you,"  was  the  wo- 
man's reply  to  this.  "  I  think  I  know  what  I  am  about,  and 
claim  to  have  rather  more  to  say  in  this  matter  than  you  have. 
So  to  end  this,  just  step  aside  and  let  me  have  the  child.  I'll 
be  responsible  for  all  the  consequences." 

She  putting  her  hand  upon  Anne's  shoulder  as  she  thus  spoke, 
and  endeavored  to  thrust  her  aside.  The  girl  did  not  resist. 
But  as  the  woman  was  taking  up  the  child,  she  said,  in  a  most 
determined  manner, 

"  Mother !  The  moment  you  pass  the  door  with  that  baby  in 
your  arms,  all  the  ties  that  bind  us  together  are  broken  !  I  will 
immediately  give  information  to  the  proper  officers  in  the  town, 
which  will  cause  both  your  arrest  and  mine,  and  the  restoration 
of  the  child  to  its  parents.  I  am  past  the  fear  of  consequences 
to  myself;  if  you  can  say  the  same,  go  on ;  but,  if  you  wish  to 
keep  out  of  the  hands  of  the  law,  let  that  child  remain  where  it 
is.  I  will  not  see  it  murdered  !" 

After  the  girl  had  said  this,  she  sunk  down,  almost  nerveless, 
into  a  chair,  and  awaited  the  effect  of  her  words  on  her  evil- 
minded  companion.  The  latter  looked  surprised  and  startled. 
Had  an  officer  of  the  law  entered  the  door  and  laid  his  hand 
upon  her,  she  could  not  have  been  more  astonished  ;  nor,  per- 
haps, more  dismayed,  for  there  was  a  stern  and  determined  spirit 
about  the  girl  which  she  felt  that  it  would  be  dangerous  to 
brave. 

"  Don't  speak  to  me  in  that  way,  Anne,"  said  she,  while  a 
bright  spot  burned  on  either  cheek.  "  You  know  that  I  am  not 
a  woman  to  brook  a  threat,  nor  to  bend  myself  before  one  like 
you.  Give  me  the  child's  cap  and  cloak  !" 


, 


THE  CHILD-STEALER  FOILED. 


THK    CHILD    STEALER.  243 

But  the  girl  moved  not  from  the  chair  on  which  she  had  fall- 
en rather  than  seated  herself,  nor  showed  the  smallest  sign  of 
compliance. 

Seeing  this,  the  woman  took  from  the  bed  the  articles  of  dress 
she  had  named,  and  very  deliberately  commenced  putting  them 
upon  the  babe,  that  was  lying  across  her  arm  with  every  muscle 
of  its  body  so  relaxed  that  it  seemed  more  like  a  flexible  effigy  of 
a  child,  than  a  creature  of  flesh  and  blood  in  which  still  remain- 
ed the  breath  of  life.  Having  completed  these  arrangements, 
she  rose  up  and  was  passing  from  the  room,  when  Anne  sprung 
with  the  quickness  of  thought  before  her. 

"  If  you  do  take  that  child  out,"  said  she,  in  an  impassioned 
manner,  while  her  eyes,  that  had  been  drooping  and  almost  ray- 
less  for  a  short  time,  now  burned  again  with  an  intense  light — 
"  I  solemnly  declare  that  I  w.ill  seek  instantly  a  magistrate,  and 
give  information  against  both  you  and  myself.  I  cannot,  I  will 
not  see  it  murdered  outright!" 

"  Stand  aside  !"  returned  the  woman,  in  an  angry  voice,  and 
was  about  passing  on,  when  the  appearance  of  a  lady  in  the  pas- 
sage near  their  chamber  admonished  her  of  the  danger  of  further 
contention  with  Anne,  while  there  was  the  probability  of  a  third 
person  becoming  cognizant  of  the  matter  in  dispute  between 
them.  Stepping  back,  she  closed  the  door,  and  then  tossing  the 
child  upon  the  bed  with  as  little  feeling  as  if  it  had  been  but  a 
garment  thrown  from  her  hand,  she  turned  towards  Anne  with  a 
low  but  fiercely  uttered  imprecation,  and  grasping  her  by  the 
shoulders  shook  her  violently,  and  in  the  wild  insanity  of  her 
anger,  threatened  to  take  her  life.  All  this  did  not  seem  in  the 
least  to  move  the  girl,  who,  as  quickly  as  she  could  disengage 
herself  from  the  woman's  grasp,  went  to  the  bed  upon  which  the 
infant  had  been  thrown,  and  lifting  it  tenderly  in  her  arms,  took 
off  once  more  its  cap  and  coat. 

"  Mother !  will  you  go  for  a  doctor?"  she  said,  firmly. 

The  woman  was  thrown  by  this  cool,  defiant  question,  into  a 
perfect  rage  ;  but  the  fury  of  her  passions  did  not  in  the  least 
turn  the  girl  from  the  purpose  of  her  mind — a  purpose  formed  in 
the  agony  of  her  fear  lest  the  babe  should  die. 

"  Where  are  you  going?"  said  the  \voman,  a  minute  or  two 
afterwards,  as  Anne,  with  the  babe  in  her  arms  was  leaving  the 
room.  Anne  did  not  reply,  but  going  down  stairs  asked  to  see 
the  landlord. 


244  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  We  have  a  very  sick  child,"  said  she  to  the  landlord,  when 
that  person  appeared.  "  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  call  in 
for  us  a  good  doctor  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  returned  the  man,  and  immediately  despatched 
a  servant  for  a  physician,  who  lived  close  at  hand 

"  Poor  little  thing!  It  does  look  ill,"  the  landlord  said,  as 
his  eyes  fell  upon  the  thin,  white  face  of  the  dear  babe,  uncon- 
scious, in  its  drugged  sleep,  of  its  wants  and  sufferings.  "  What 
ails  it  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replied  Anne,  drawing  the  child  closer,  and 
hiding  its  face  against  her  bosom. 

"  Has  it  been  sick  long  ?"  asked  the  man. 

"  Two  or  three  months."  And  she  turned  away  as  she  said 
this,  and  went  back  to  the  room  where  she  had  left  her  .mother, 
who  did  not  appear  to  notice  her  entrance.  Anne  sat  down  with 
the  child  still  held  closely  to  her  bosom,  and  the  woman  re- 
maining near  a  window,  looking  out  upon  the  street.  Neither 
of  them  spoke,  nor  changed  her  position  for  the  space  of  ten 
minutes,  when  there  a  loud  rap  upon  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Anne,  in  a  composed  voice,  while  her  moth- 
er started  to  her  feet,  and  turned  a  look  of  alarmed  inquiry  upon 
the  man  who,  obeying  the  answer  to  his  application  for  admit- 
tance, entered  the  chamber. 

"You  have  a  sick  child,  I  believe,  madam,"  said  he,  looking 
rather  curiously  at  the  elder  of  the  two  females,  whose  manner 
could  not  but  strike  him  as  singular. 

"Yes,  sir;  a  very  sick  child,"  replied  Anne.  "You  are  a 
doctor,  I  presume  ?" 

"  I  am.     You  desired  one  called  ?" 

"  We  did,"  said  the  elder,  her  manner  quickly  changing,  as, 
with  the  quickness  of  thought,  she  comprehended  the  meaning 
of  what  was  passing,  and  advanced  towards  the  physician.  "  My 
babe  is  exceeding  ill,"  she  went  on,  "  and  we  have  been  com- 
pelled to  suspend  our  journey  in  order  to  get  medical  advice  and 
attention." 

A  deep  and  apparently  natural  concern  was  in  the  tones  of 
the  woman's  voice,  and  her  countenance  expressed  great  anx- 

The  physcian  drew  a  chair  to  the  side  of  Anne,  and  bending 
over  the  child  looked  at  it  attentively  for  some  time. 
"  How  long  has  it  been  sick  ?  he  asked. 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  245 

"  For  several  weeks,"  replied  the  woman. 

"  What  is  its  age  ?" 

"  It  is  about  six  months  old. 

"  Does  it  nurse  ?" 

"  No,  sir.     I  have  had  to  raise  it  by  hand." 

A  long  silence  followed,  during  which  the  physician  continued 
attentively  examining  his  little  patient. 

"  You  have  given  it  laudanum,"  he  at  length  said. 

"I  gave  it  a  few  drops  about  mid -day  to  relieve  it  from  pain. 
No  doctor  could  be  had,  and  it  was  screaming  as  if  it  would  go 
into  convulsions." 

"  How  many  drops  did  you  give  it  ?" 

"  Only  three." 

"  How  long  ago  ?" 

"  About  four  hours." 

The  doctor  took  the  babe  in  his  arms,  and  continued  to  look 
at  it  with  earnest  attention. 

"  Do  you  think  it  very  ill,  doctor?"  inquired  the  woman,  with 
well  counterfeited  anxiety. 

To  this  the  physician  did  not,  at  first,  reply.  But,  being  urged, 
he  said — 

"  I  do,  dangerously  ill.  I  am  afraid  you  have  made  some 
mistake,  and  given  the  child  a  much  larger  dose  of  laudanum 
than  you  say.  Three  drops  would  not  produce  a  sleep  like 
this. 

"  Will  it  die  ?"  asked  Anne,  lifting  eagerly  her  eyes,  almost 
blinded  with  tears,  to  the  face  of  the  doctor.  "  Oh,  sir  !  Do 
you  think  it  will  die  ?" 

"  While  there  is  life  there  is  always  hope,"  replied  the  doctor, 
evasively. 

"  But  you  think  the  hope  feeble,"  said  Anne. 

"  I  certainly  do.  Still,  nature  may  rally,  assisted  by  such 
remedies  as  I  can  give,  and  throw  off  the  effects  of  the  drug, 
under  the  influence  of  which  the  babe  is  now  suffering.  That 
done,  I  will  be  better  able  to  determine  the  nature  of  the  dis- 
ease with  which  it  is  afflicted.  But,  candor  compels  me  to  say, 
that  I  do  not  entertain  sanguine  hopes  of  seeing  it  recover.  There 
may  be  some  deeply  seated  and  steadily  wasting  disease,  be- 
yond the  power  of  medicine  to  reach,  that  will  set  at  naught  all 
my  efforts.  It  has  been  recently  under  the  care  of  some  physi- 
cian, I  presume  ?" 
21* 


246  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

No  immediate  answer  was  made  to  this  question.  At  length, 
the  woman  said  : 

"  No,  sir.  We  have  travelled  from  Galena  by  way  of  St. 
Louis  and  Pittsburg,  and  have  not  considered  the  child  so  very 
ill  as  it  appears  to  have  been,  until  within  a  clay  or  two.  It  has 
never  been  very  healthy  since  it  was  born.  To-day  it  is  much 
worse  than  ever." 

A  good  many  .more,  and  as  the  woman  evidently  felt,  rather 
searching  questions  were  asked  by  the  doctor,  who  finally  left 
some  medicine,  and  prescribed  a  certain  mode  of  treatment  de- 
signed to  assist  nature  in  throwing  off  the  effects  of  the  power- 
ful anodyne  the  child  had  taken.  When  he  went  away,  he  said 
he  would  call  again  in  the  evening. 

"A  great  piece  of  folly!"  muttered  the  woman,  as  soon  as 
the  physician  had  retired.  "  I  wonder  what  right  you  had  to 
send  for  a  doctor  without  my  consent !  I  have  a  mind  to  throw 
his  medicine  out  of  the  windowT.  There's  nothing  so  very  par- 
ticular the  matter,  except  the  over-dose  of  laudanum,  and  she 
will  be  better  of  that  very  soon." 

"  The  doctor  thinks  differently,  and  so  do  I,"  was  the  firm 
answer. 

"  And  who  are  you,  pray,  to  set  yourself  up,  all  at  once,  to 
cross  me  ?  Girl !  I  wrould  advise  you  to  take  care.  I  thought 
by  this  time  you  knew  me  better  than  to  suppose  I  would,  for  a 
moment,  permit  you  to  cross  me  as  you  are  now  doing.  There ! 
I  will  let  you  see  whose  will  is  to  govern  here  ?" 

And  as  the  woman  said  this,  she  stepped  hastily  to  the  man- 
tel-piece where  the  doctor  had  placed  some  medicine,  and  taking 
up  the  paper  in  which  it  was  contained,  tore  it  open,  and  threw 
the  contents  from  the  window.  Then  striding  towards  Anne 
she  caught  at  the  babe,  but  the  girl  drew  it  tightly  to  her  bosom 
and  bent  over  it  in  such  a  way  as  entirely  to  shield  it.  In 
that  position,  she  resisted  all  the  efforts  that  were  made  for  its 
removal,  which  enraged  her  mother  beyond  all  bounds.  Anne 
received  one  blow  on  the  side  of  the  face  from  the  hand  of  the 
furious  woman,  but  before  another  fell  she  had  sprung  away,  and 
with  the  fleetness  of  wind  disappeared  through  the  door,  still 
holding  the  unconscious  babe  in  her  arms.  The  first  impulse  of 
the  woman  was  to  follow,  but  recollecting  that  such  an  act 
would  only  result  in  an  exposure,  of  all  things  to  be  avoided, 
she  restrained  herself,  and  waited  with  no  little  anxiety,  for  ten 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  247 

or  fifteen  minutes,  in  expectation  of  Anne's  return.  But  she 
waited  in  vain. 

By  this  time,  the  angry  excitement  of  the  woman  had  subsi- 
ded, and  given  place  to  anxiety.  The  threat  of  Anne,  as  she 
recalled  the  manner  in  which  it  was  uttered,  filled  her  with 
alarm.  The  girl  had  suddenly  changed  and  turned  upon  her  in 
a  spirit  of  defiance,  as  unexpected  as  it  was  portentous  of  coming 
trouble. 

At  the  expiration  of  half  an  hour,  Anne  not  returning,  the 
woman  went  down  stairs  and  asked  if  her  daughter  had  been 
seen. 

"  I  saw  her  come  down  and  go  into  the  bar-room  and  speak 
to  my  husband,"  replied  the  wife  of  the  landlord  of  whom  the 
inquiry  had  been  made. 

"  Will  you  ask  him  if  she  went  out  ?" 

The  wife  of  the  landlord  stepped  to  the  bar-room  door  and 
called  to  her  husband.  He  came  into  the  passage  where  the 
two  women  were  standing. 

"  Did  my  daughter  go  out  any  where?"  was  asked  with  ill- 
concealed  anxiety. 

"  Only  over  to  the  doctor's,"  replied  the  landlord. 

"  Where  does  the  doctor  live  ?" 

"  In  the  white  house  you  see  away  down  the  street  with  the 
two  tall  poplars  standing  in  front." 

"  She»ought  to  be  back  soon,  now,"  remarked  the  woman, 
forcing  herself  to  assume  a  calmer  exterior  than  she  had  exhibit- 
ed when  she  came  down. 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  time  she  was  back,  I  think.  Was  the  child  worse 
after  the  doctor  went  away  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  much  worse  ;  and  besides,  the  wind  blew  the  medi- 
cine he  left  out  of  the  window,  and  my  daughter  has  gone  for 
more." 

"  Ah !  I'm  sorry.  What  appears  to  be  the  matter  with  your 
child?" 

"  I  don't  know.  She  has  been  sick  a  good  while,  and  I  am 
afraid  will  hardly  recover." 

The  manner  in  which  this  was  said,  had  the  desired  effect  of 
creating  sympathy  and  allaying  suspicion. 

"  If  she  is  not  back  soon,  I  must  go  over  to  the  doctor's  my- 
self. Does  another  stage  go  on  East  to-night  ?" 

"  No,  not  until  to-morrow  about  noon." 


248  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  At  what  hour  does  the  Western  stage  go  through  ?" 
"  At  ten  to-night." 

The  woman  went  back  to  her  room,  where  she  spent  fifteen 
or  twenty  minutes  in  great  uncertainty  and  much  trepidation. 
The  purpose  of  Anne  might  go  no  further  than  an  applica- 
tion to  the  doctor  for  medicine  for  the  sick  child ;  or,  it  might 
involve  the  exposure  she  had  threatened  to  make.  Would  she 
return  to  her?  That  was  another  serious  question.  Think 
as  she  would,  the  -shadow  of  near  approaching  trouble  was  upon 
her  mind,  and  she  felt  oppressed  and  alarmed.  Long  and  anx- 
iously did  she  look  from  the  window,  in  the  direction  in  which 
Anne  had  gone,  but  the  slender  form  of  the  girl  was  no  where 
to  be  seen.  Finally,  she  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  opening  her 
trunk,  took  therefrom  a  purse  of  money,  which  she  placed  in  her 
bosom.  She  then  went  down  stairs,  and,  remarking  to  the  land- 
lady as  she  met  her  in  the  passage,  that  she  believed  she  would 
go  over  to  the  doctor's,  passed  out  of  the  house,  and  went  off  in 
the  direction  she  had  said  she  would  take.  Four  times  she 
passed  the  physician's  house,  and,  at  last,  ventured  in. 

"  Is  the  doctor  at  home  ?"  she  asked  of  a  servant  who  an- 
swered her  knock. 

No,  ma'am." 

How  long  has  he  been  out  ?" 

About  half  an  hour." 

Was  there  a  girl  here  with  a  sick  child,  say  an  hour  ago?" 

Yes,  ma'am." 

Did  the  doctor  see  her  ?" 

Yes." 

Is  she  here  now  ?" 

No,  ma'am,  she  has  gone  away." 

Did  you  see  which  way  she  went  ?" 
The  servant  did  not  reply.     On  the  question  being  repeated, 
she  said,  as  if  offended  with  the  interrogatories  of  the  woman, 

"  I've  something  to  do  besides  watching  which  way  the  doc- 
tor's patients  go  when  they  leave  the  office." 

"  But  I  have  a  particular  reason  for  desiring  to  have  my  ques- 
tion answered,"  said  the  woman,  curbing  the  anger  excited  by 
the  girl's  rude  words.  "  If  you  saw  the  direction  which  the 
person  I  have  inquired  about,  took,  after  leaving  here,  you  will 
not  only  confer  a  favor,  but  deeply  oblige  me  by  answering  the 
question  I  have  asked." 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  249 

"  Come  when  the  doctor  is  in.     He  can  tell  yon,  perhaps." 

"  But  did  you  see  her  leave  here  ?" 

"  Well,  if  you  must  know,  I  did,"  replied  the  girl,  knitting  her 
heavy  brows,  and  putting  on  a  look  of  defiance. 

"  Then  be  kind  enough  to  answer  the  simple  question  I  have 
asked." 

"  Indeed,  ma'am,  and  I  shall  do  no  such  thing." 

"  You  won't !     And  pray,  why  not  ?" 

"  Because  I  won't ;  that's  all.'" 

"  Girl !  Do  you  know  me  ?"  said  the  woman,  in  a  stern, 
yet  excited  voice,  while  her  face  grew  dark  from  struggling 
emotions. 

"  No,  ma'am,  I  don't." 

"  Do  you  know  the  person  whose  movements  you  seem  so 
strangely  desirous  of  concealing  ?" 

"  I  know  that  she  wants  to  get  away  from  somebody — you, 
no  doubt — that,  I  suppose,  ill-treats  her  and  the  child  ;  and" I'm 
not  the  one  to  tell  tales  on  her. 

"  Answer  me  one  question,"  said  the  woman,  her  whole  man- 
ner changing,  and  her  voice  falling  into  a  lower  and  softer  tone. 
. — "  Did  she  leave  hers  in  company  with  the  doctor?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  she  did,  if  that  will  be  any  good  to  you.  But, 

take  my  advice,  and  don't  attempt  to  come  across  Doctor  L ; 

for,  you  see,  nobody  gets  ahead  of  him." 

The  woman  staid  to  hear  no  more.  Turning  from  the  girl, 
she  left  the  doctor's  office,  and  kept  on  her  way  down  the  street, 
leaving  the  hotel  from  which  she  had  just  emerged,  farther  and 
farther  behind  her  at  every  step. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  loss  of  Mr.  Milford's  child,  caused  a  thrill  of  pain  to  go 
through  the  heart  of^  almost  every  one.  It  was  an  incident  ap- 
pealing so  directly  to  the  quickest  sensibilities  of  the  mind,  that 
all  spoke  of  it  as  a  most  distressing  circumstance,  and  felt  more 
than  they  found  words  to  express.  Among  those  who  sympa- 
thized more  deeply  than  others  with  the  distracted  parents  were 


250          SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER. 

a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lewis,  from  whom,  many  years  before,  a  babe 
had  been  stolen,  and  never  recovered.  They  were  living  in  a 
Western  city  at  the  time,  but  more  recently  removed  to  New 
York,  where  they  had  resided  ever  since.  Their  nurse  had 
taken  the  child  out,  and,  while  on  the  street,  became  suddenly 
so  ill  as  to  faint.  When  she  recovered  her  reason,  the  babe  that 
vas  in  her  charge  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  To  her  eager  in- 
quiries, all  that  she  could  learn  was,  that  a  woman,  who  was 
passing  at  the  time,  had  taken  the  child  in  her  arms  and  carried 
it  into  a  house  near  by.  On  going  to  that  house,  this  statement 
was  confirmed ;  and  she  further  learned  that  this  woman  had 
declared  herself  a  relative  of  the  babe,  and  had  had  taken  it 
away  with  her. 

On  arriving  at  home,  and  giving  information  of  what  had 
occurred,  instant  search  was  made  for  the  lost  babe,  but  it  was 
never  found,  and  not  the  least  intelligence  in  regard  to  it,  had, 
from  that  period,  come  to  the  knowledge  of  the  almost  heart- 
broken parents.  It  was  their  first  and  only  child,  and  for  long 
years  they  had  mourned  it — but  whether  as  dead  or  alive  they 
had  no  certain  knowledge. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lewis  were  well  acquainted  with  Mr.  Milford 
and  his  wife  ;  and,  on  the  first  intelligence  of  the  loss  they  had 
sustained,  came  forward  with  offers  of  sympathy  on  the  part  of 
the  one,  and  aid  in  searching  for  the  lost  one  on  the  part  of  the 
other,  although  in  doing  so,  wounds  long  since  received,  and 
only  partially  healed  over,  began  to  bleed  afresh. 

As  Mrs.  Lewis  drew  close  to  the  side  of  the  heart-crushed 
and  mind-wandering  mother,  there  came  to  her  bitter  remem- 
brances of  her  own  long  night  of  agony.  She  went  back  again 
to  that  time,  when  the  first  terrible  news  came  that  her  babe  was 
lost,  and  felt  something  of  the  wild  anguish  that  almost  mad- 
dened her,  when  sad  confirmations  of  the  truth  fell,  one  after 
another,  like  strokes  from  a  hammer  upon  her  brain.  But,  in 
her  efforts  to  sustain  her  friend,  these  memories  of  her  own  loss 
gradually  faded  away.  Yet,  what  power  was  there  in  words  to 
comfort  a  mother  whose  babe  had  been  stolen  from  her  arms ! 
Would  a  reference  to  the  fact,  that,  years  before,  another  mother 
had  sustained  a  similar  loss,  and  never  regained  the  dear  one  thus 
rent  from  her,  afford  any  consolation  ? 

Alas ! — with  all  the  generous  sympathy  felt  by  Mrs.  Lewis, 
she  too  well  understood,  that  there  was  no  sustaining  power  in 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  251 

any  words  that  she  could  utter ;  and  therefore  she  offered  noth- 
ing to  the  sufferer  but  her  presence  and  her  tears ;  and  these 
were  given  freely. 

Mrs.  Lewis  had  few  household  cares  and  duties  of  her  own, 
and  she  had,  therefore,  leisure  to  follow  the  bent  of  her  own  feel- 
ings, and  they  led  her  to  be  many  hours  each  day  with  Mrs. 
Milford,  towards  whom  she  began  to  feel  a  regard  somewhat 
resembling  that  which  is  felt  by  a  mother  for  an  imbecile  child, 
and  to  watch,  with  similar  emotions,  for  the  light  of  clearer  rea- 
son to  dawn  upon  the  mind.  It  was  natural  that  the  latter 
should  be  affected  by  the  kindness  with  which  she  was  regarded, 
and  manifest  her  sense  of  it  by  shrinking  close  to  the  friend  who 
had  drawn  nigh  in  the  season  of  darkness  and  affliction.  So 
necessary,  at  length,  became  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Lewis,  that 
it  was  only  when  she  was  with  her  that  Mrs.  Milford's  mind 
came  into  any  thing  resembling  tranquillity  or  repose.  At  other 
times  she  would  wander  uneasily  over  the  house,  asking  ques- 
tions about  the  lost  Blanche  of  each  domestic  she  happened  to 
meet ;  or,  she  would  sit  in  her  room,  or  lie  in  bed,  and  weep 
for  hours. 

Mr.  Lewis  manifested  his  sympathy  with  the  distressed  pa- 
rents by  efforts  to  find  the  lost  child  nearly  as  active  and  unti- 
ring as  those  used  by  Mr.  Milford  himself.  He  seemed  almost 
to  be  living  over  again  a  long  passed  period  of  his  life,  with  all 
the  interest,  though  not  the  keen  suffering,  appertaining  to  that 
period.  He  went  journeys,  investigated  circumstances  that 
seemed  to  offer  a  clue  to  the  dreadful  mystery  that  hung  over 
the  absence  of  the  babe,  and  talked  and  thought  about  the 
matter  almost  as  constantly  and  attentively  as  if  he  were  himself 
the  bereaved  father. 

And  there  were  many  others  who  came  forward  and  tendered 
to  the  unhappy  parents  their  sympathy  and  aid ;  and  hundreds 
who  desired  to  do  the  same,  but  feared  lest  their  proffered  inter- 
est might  be  felt  as  an  intrusion.  In  fact,  the  chord  which  had 
been  struck,  vibrated  through  thousands  of  hearts  ;  the  story  of 
the  bereavement,  as  it  passed  from  lip  to  lip,  paled  thousands  of 
cheeks.  Mothers,  to  whom  the  thought  of  such  a  loss  had  never 
come,  now  held  their  babes  more  tightly  to  their  bosoms,  and 
were  far  more  careful  about  those  into  whose  hands  they  tempo- 
rarily entrusted  them.  A  sense  of  fear  and  insecurity  was  wide- 
spread, and  oppressive  to  the  maternal  bosom. 


262  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

When  Mr.  Milford  returned  to  the  place  where  the  girl  was 
held  a  prisoner,  bearing  in  his  hand  an  order  for  her  release,  he 
found  her  in  a  state  of  mind  not  at  all  satisfactory.  She  had  be- 
come moody,  and  answered  evasively  and  with  ill-concealed 
reluctance,  all  his  questions.  By  appeals  and  promises,  how- 
ever, he  succeeded  in  bringing  her  back  to  something  like  her 
former  apparent  willingness  to  go  with  him  and  do  all  in  her 
power  towards  recovering  his  child. 

"  In  what  direction  do  you  think  we  had  better  go  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Milford,  after  this  more  favorable  change  had  taken  place. 

"  Most  likely  they  have  gone  to  Philadelphia,"  replied  the 
girl. 

"  To  remain  there  for  any  time  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  That  woman  has  been  so  often  in  the  hands  of  the 
police,  that  she  doesn't  much  fancy  cities,  where  officers  are  al- 
ways watching  about  and  interfering  with  every  body." 

"  From  Philadelphia,  where  do  you  think  she  will  be  likely 
to  go?" 

"  To  some  of  the  country  towns,  where  people  are  more  easily 
deceived  by  a  good  story,  and  where  there  are  no  police  officers 
prying  about  and  meddling  with  every  one's  business." 

"  You  have  been  in  Philadelphia  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Have  you  any  idea  of  the  place  at  which  this  woman,  who 
has  my  child,  will  stay  while  in  that  city  ?" 

"  I  think  I  have." 

"  That  is  important ! — We  will  go  there  by  the  latest  train  of 
cars  to-day.  Who  knows  but  that  we  may  still  find  them  in  the 
city.  Come ! — let  us  go  from  here." 

The  girl,  who  had  been  informed  by  an  officer  that  she  was 
free  to  leave  the  place  of  her  imprisonment,  if  she  went  with 
Mr.  Milford,  followed  that  gentleman  into  the  street,  where  a 
carriage  was  in  waiting. 

In  the  afternoon  train  of  cars  they  were  on  their  way  to  Phil- 
adelphia, where  they  arrived  about  ten  o'clock.  For  both  him- 
self and  companion  Mr.  Milford  took  lodgings  at  the  United 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  253 

States  Hotel.  Jane  had  been  in  her  own  room  about  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  when  a  servant  came  to  the  door  and  said  that  the 
gentleman  with  whom  she  had  come  wished  to  see  her  in  the 
parlor.  She  went  down  to  him  without  any  delay. 

"  Jane,"  said  Mr.  Milford, — "  you  know,  as  well  as  I  do, 
that  every  moment  is  of  importance.  To-night  my  child  may  be 
here  ;  but,  but  by  to-morrow  morning  she  may  be  gone.  Will 
you  go  with  me  to  the  place  where  you  think  that  woman  is 
likely  to  be  found,  if  in  this  city  ?  There  is  an  officer  ready  to 
accompany  us." 

At  the  word  officer,  the  girl  turned  slightly  pale.  It  doubtless 
awoke  in  her  mind  some  unpleasant  association.  But  whatever 
hesitation  she  felt,  was  only  momentary,  for  she  said,  as  she 
turned  from  Mr.  Milford — 

"  I  will  get  myself  ready  and  come  down  in  a  moment." 

"  Very  well.     I  will  wait  for  you  here,"  replied  Mr.  Milford. 

For  five,  ten,  fifteen  minutes  the  anxious  man  walked  back- 
ward and  forward  through  the  large  room ;  yet  Jane  did  not 
appear. 

"  Strange  !"  he  murmured  to  himself,  on  looking  at  his  watch, 
and  finding  how  long  she  had  been  preparing  herself  to  go  out. 
Immediately  stepping  to  the  bar,  he  directed  a  servant  to  be 
sent  up  in  order  to  ascertain  the  reason  of  her  long  delay.  In 
a  little  while  the  servant  came  back  and  said  there  was  no  one 
in  the  girl's  room.  Mr.  Milford  sprang  away  at  this  intelli- 
gence, and  went  quickly  up  stairs  to  see  for  himself.  It  was  too 
true.  The  girl  had  flown.  On  inquiry,  one  of  the  chamber- 
maids said  that  she  had  seen  her  come  quietly  from  her  room, 
dressed  to  go  out,  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before,  and  glide 
down  stairs,  swiftly,  but  noiselessly. 

The  wretched  father  received  this  intelligence  with  a  groan 
of  irrepressible  pain.  His  hopes  had  been  raised  to  a  high  pitch  ; 
but  they  were  suddenly  dashed  to  the  earth.  He  did  not  long 
remain  supine,  however.  After  consulting  with  the  officer, 
whose  aid  had  been  called  in,  it  was  determined  to  notify,  im- 
mediately, the  whole  police  of  the  city,  as  far  as  it  could  be 
done,  and  have  men  at  every  avenue  of  departure  by  public  con- 
veyance in  the  morning  and  for  the  next  three  or  four  days.  By 
this  means  the  woman  who  had  the  child,  if  still  in  Philadelphia, 
might  be  arrested,  if  she  attempted  to  go  away.  To  decide  upon 
this  as  the  best  course,  and  to  commission  the  officer  to  set  the 


254  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER, 

required  machinery  in  operation  immediately,  was  all  Mr.  Mil- 
ford  could  do  on  the  night  of  his  arrival  in  Philadelphia,  and  he 
retired  to  his  room  about  twelve  o'clock,  feeling  depressed  in 
spirits,  and  almost  hopeless  in  regard  to  his  child.  In  the  ability 
of  Jane  to  ferret  out  the  wretch  who  had  his  babe,  he  had  the 
fullest  confidence.  But  she  had  failed  him  at  the  very  moment 
when  aid  was  most  needed. 

In  the  morning,  Mr.  Milford  waited  anxiously  from  daylight 
until  seven  o'clock  for  the  appearance  of  the  officer  who  had 
been  directed  to  carry  out  the  plan  of  having  one  or  two  mem- 
bers of  the  police  stationed  at  every  steamboat  landing,  railroad 
depot,  and  stage  office,  in  order  to  prevent  the  departure  of  any 
one  suspected  of  being  concerned  in  stealing  his  child.  That 
person  at  length  appeared,  and  reported  that  all  the  contemplated 
arrangements  had  been  made,  and  that  he  might  rely  upon  the 
woman's  arrest  if  she  were  still  in  the  city.  After  a  good  deal 
of  conversation,  in  which  various  things  were  suggested,  the 
officer  and  Mr.  Milford  separated,  with  an  understanding  that 
they  were  to  meet  at  ten  o'clock,  for  the  purpose  of  going  to  the 
Mayor,  and  laying  the  whole  matter  before  him.  The  latter 
was  sitting  in  a  thoughtful  mood,  when  a  servant  came  up  to 
him  and  said  that  a  lady  in  the  parlor  wished  to  see  him. 

"A  lady!     Who  is  it?" 

"  She  did  not  give  her  name." 

"  Is  any  one  with  her?" 

"  No,  sir." 

Mr.  Milford  asked  no  more  questions,  but  went  directly  to  the 
ladies'  parlor. 

"  Jane !"  he  exclaimed,  in  surprise,  as  he  entered, — "  where 
have  you  been  ?" 

"  In  search  of  your  babe,"  replied  the  girl  calmly. 

"Well!"  Mr.  Milford  spoke  quickly,  while  his 'breath  came 
almost  panting  through  his  lips. 

"  The  woman  has  been  here,'7  replied  Jane. 

"  Are  you  sure  ?" 

"  I  know  it.  I  have  been  at  the  house  where  she  staid,  and 
learn  that  she  left  two  days  ago." 

"Left?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"For  what  place?" 

"  For  Lancaster." 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  255 

"  Is  there  no  mistake  about  this  ?  Have  you  not  been  de- 
ceived ?" 

«  No,  sir." 

"  But  why  did  you  go  away  last  evening  in  such  a  strange 
manner  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Milford. 

"  Because,"  replied  the  girl,  "  it  was  better  for  me  to  go 
alone.  Had  I  appeared  with  you  or  an  officer,  nothing  would 
have  been  learned." 

"  True — true — you  are  no  doubt  right  there,  Jane,"  said  Mr. 
Milford,  after  thinking  for  a  few  moments.  "  And  she  has  gone 
to  Lancaster  ?  Are  you  sure  there  is  no  mistake  ?" 

"  I  believe  not." 

"  But,  don't  you  remember  that  this  woman  gave  out,  when 
she  left  Albany,  that  she  was  going  to  Buffalo ;  but,  instead, 
came  off  South." 

"  Yes.  But  she  had  no  reason  for  making  an  incorrect  state- 
ment here." 

"  She  was  with  friends  then  !" 

"  She  was  with  those  who  knew  all  about  her  ;  and  who  would 
not  have  answered  a  question,  if  you  or  an  officer  had  been  with 
me." 

"  We  must  go  immediately  to  Lancaster,"  said  Mr.  Mil- 
ford,  after  he  had  stood  in  a  thoughtful  attitude  for  some  mo- 
ments. "  How  long  do  you  think  it  probable  that  she  will 
remain  there  ?" 

"  A  week,  perhaps." 

"  Very  welL  We  will  go  up  in  the  next  train  of  cars.  You 
can  return  to  your  room.  I  will  send  for  you  after  awhile  and 
let  you  know  at  what  time  the  cars  leave." 

When  Mr.  Milford  met  the  officer  with  whom  he  had  an  ap- 
pointment at  ten  o'clock,  and  related  what  had  occurred  since 
he  saw  him  in  the  morning,  that  individual  shook  his  head  and 
remarked — 

"  I  can't  say  that  I  like  this.  We  should  know  where  that 
girl  has  been  and  who  are  the  accomplices  in  an  affair  like 
this." 

"  That  ought  to  be  known,  I  admit.  But  at  present,  the  re- 
covery of  my  child  is  the  only  end  in  view,  and  I  cannot  stop  to 
investigate  what  is  questionable  in  the  manner  by  which  any 
intelligence  in  regard  to  her  comes.  To  do  so,  might  prove  a 
most  fatal  mistake  and  defeat  all." 


256  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  It  might  be  so.  Still,  I  do  not  like  the  aspect  in  which  the 
affair  now  presents  itself.  However,  as  you  say,  the  first  object 
is  to  regain  your  child ;  and  if  this  can  be  most  certainly  done 
by  accepting  the  information  you  now  have,  and  acting  upon  it 
promptly,  it  is  no  doubt  wisest  to  do  as  you  propose.  It  will  be 
time  enough  after  your  return  from  Lancaster,  should  your  visit 
there  be  successful,  to  take  up  the  other  matter." 

After  arranging  with  the  officer  for  the  arrest  of  the  girl  or 
their  return  to  the  city,  in  order  to  get  information  from  her,  if 
possible,  as  to  the  parties  in  Philadelphia  who  were  interested 
in  the  movements  of  the  woman  who  had  possession  of  the  child, 
Mr.  Milford  started  for  Lancaster  in  company  with  Jane.  On 
their  arrival  the  girl  proposed  going  out  alone  and  ascertain- 
ing if  the  individual  in  search  of  whom  they  had  come  were 
there.  But  Mr.  Milford  objected  to  this.  They  then  went,  in 
company,  to  every  hotel  and  boarding-house  in  the  place,  but 
no  one,  such  as  they  described,  had  been  seen. 

"  She  is  not  here,"  was  the  sad  and  disappointed  expression 
of  Mr.  Milford,  when  they  returned  together  to  the  house  at 
which  they  were  staying.  "  You  have  been  misinformed." 

"  She  must  be  here,"  replied  the  girl,  confidently.  "  Let  me 
go  out  alone  for  a  single  hour,  and  I  am  sure  I  can  find  her." 

"  Go,  then,  in  Heaven's  name !"  said  the  wretched  man,  in 
an  excited  voice.  "  Go !  and  be  quick." 

Jane  did  not  linger  a  moment.  The  words  were  scarcely 
uttered  by  Mr.  Milford,  before  he  found  himself  alone.  But  the 
girl  did  not  return  in  an  hour,  as  she  had  promised  to  do. 
It  was  nearly  four  hours  ere  she  came  back;  but  then  she 
brought  good  news. 

"I  have  found  them!"  she  said,  in  a  joyous  voice,  as  she 
entered  the  loom  where  Mr.  Milford  awaited  her.  The  latter 
became  so  excited  at  these  words,  that  he  was  unable,  for  some 
moments,  to  stand. 

"  Where  are  they  ?    Quick  !    Tell  me  !"  he  exclaimed  eagerly. 

"  They  are  at  the  house  of  Mr.  L ,  a  minister,  who  lives 

three  miles  from  here." 

"  Have  you  been  there  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  knew  the  woman  was  here,  and  I  knew  I  could  find 
her  if  you  would  let  me  have  my  own  way." 

''Did  you  see  her?" 

"Yes." 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  257 

"  And  the  child !  How  is  that  ?"  The  father's  voice  trem- 
bled. 

"  Well."  The  girl  turned  her  face  partly  away,  as  she  thus 
briefly  replied  to  the  last  anxious  question. 

"  Thank  God !"  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  excited  man. 

After  he  had  a  little  recovered  himself,  and  had  made  a  good 
many  more  inquiries,  Mr.  Milford  rang  the  bell,  and  when  a 
servant  appeared,  gave  orders  for  a  vehicle  to  be  brought  to  the 
door  as  quickly  as  possible.  The  time  that  passed  before  this 
came,  was  spent  in  asking  a  variety  of  questions  ;  but  little 
could  be  elicited  from  the  girl  beyond  the  fact  that  she  had  dis- 
covered the  fugitives,  and  that  they  were  to  be  found  at  the  house 
of  the  Rev.  Mr.  L . 

"  Is  her  daughter  with  her  ;  she  that  stole  my  child  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Milford. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  returned  Jane. 

"Did  you  see  her?" 

"  I  did.     She  was  nursing  the  baby." 

"  Did  you  see  the  baby's  face  ?  How  did  it  look  ?  Did  you 
hear  it  cry  ?" 

"  It  was  lying  asleep  in  Anne's  arms." 

"  Did  she  seem  kind  to  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.     Anne  will  be  good  to  it.     She  loves  little  babies." 

"  Did  you  see  Mr.  L ?" 

"  No." 

"Or  any  of  his  family?" 

"  I  saw  his  lady,  I  suppose." 

"  What  excuse  did  you  make  for  calling  ?" 

"I  asked  to  see  Mrs.  Green,  and  when  I  was  taken  into  the 
room  where  she  was  sitting,  I  inquired  of  her  about  my  mother 
— if  she  knew  where  she  was?" 

"  Your  presence  must  have  made  her  feel  uneasy." 

"  No." 

"  Do  you  think  she  has  any  suspicion  of  your  errand  here  ?" 

"None  at  all.     Why  should  she ?" 

A  buggy  wagon  stopped  before  the  window  near  which  they 
were  sitting,  and  an  attendant  came  in  with  information  that  it 
was  the  one  which  had  been  ordered. 

"  Come,"  said  Mr.  Milford,  rising,  "  we  must  not  linger  a 
moment." 

"  Are  you  not  going  to  take  an  officer  along  ?"  inquired  the 
22* 


258  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

girl,  as  she  glanced  from  the  window,  and  saw  that  there  were 
only  seats  for  two  persons. 

"  Do  you  think  I  had  better  do  so  ?'J 

"That  is  just  as  you  like.  If  you  merely  intend  to  get  the 
child,  and  let  the  woman  and  her  daughter  go,  there  is  no  need 
of  your  taking  any  one  with  you." 

"But  I  don't  mean  to  let  them  escape!  No!  no!"  Mr. 
Milford  spoke  with  much  feeling. 

"  Then  you  had  better  take  an  officer." 

"  But  that  wagon  won't  hold  more  than  two  persons.  If  I 
take  an  officer  there  will  be  no  room  for  you." 

"  No  matter.  I  can  wait  here  until  your  return.  And  be- 
sides, I  would  rather  not  be  present  when  they  are  taken  up." 

Mr.  Milford  stood  and  mused  for  some  time. 

"  Can  we  find  the  place  without  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes.  It  is  on  the  turnpike,  in  that  direction,  (pointing 
with  her  finger)  just  three  miles  from  here.  Any  one  will  tell 

you  where  Mr.  L. ,  the  minister,  lives.  The  officer  will 

know." 

After  a  little  more  reflection,  Mr.  Milford  determined  to  do  as 
Jane  suggested.  He  had  no  idea  of  letting  the  wretches  who 
had  possession  of  his  child,  escape.  Ascertaining  the  place  at 
which  an  officer  properly  qualified  to  make  an  arrest  might  be 
found,  he  called  and  explained  the  business  for  which  he  wanted 
him. 

"  Do  you  know  this  Mr.  L ?"  he  inquired. 

"  Oh,  yes.     Very  well." 

"  And  can  you  go  direct  to  his  house  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  Then  let  us  proceed  thither  without  a  moment's  delay." 

After  satisfying  himself  that  it  was  all  as  Mr.  Milford  said,  the 
officer  jumped  into  the  wagon,  and  they  drove  towards  the  resi- 
dence of  Mr.  L at  a  rapid  speed.  In  twenty-five  min- 
utes they  drew  up  at  a  neat  little  cottage,  standing  back  from 
the  road,  around  which  grew  the  choicest  variety  of  flowers  and 
clambering  vines.  In  the  neat  little  porch  sat  a  woman  holding 
a  babe  in  her  arms,  and  within  the  door  was  a  girl  some  four- 
teen or  fifteen  years  of  age.  The  reins  dropped  from  the  hands 
of  Mr.  Milford,  ere  the  horse,  upon  whose  mouth  he  had  drawn 
hard  and  quick,  had  time  to  more  than  half  check  his  speed,  and 
springing  from  the  vehicle,  he  darted  through  the  little  gate,  and 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  259 

ran  eagerly  up  to  the  woman,  who  arose,  with  a  look  of  alarm, 
as  he  approached,  and  hugging  the  babe  she  held,  tightly  to  her 
bosom,  turned  to  go  into  the  house. 

"  Stop  !  stop  !"  cried  the  excited  man,  in  the  wildness  of  his 
suspense  ;  and  he  bounded  into  the  porch  and  caught  hold  of 
the  woman's  arm,  who  now  screamed  in  terror  and  struggled 
to  escape  from  him.  The  officer,  who  had  followed  as  quickly 
as  possible,  was  now  by  the  side  of  Mr.  Milford,  and  taking  firm 
hold  of  him,  drew  him  back,  and  said — 

"  There,  there,  sir !  Let  Mrs.  L go.  You  must  not 

act  in  this  way." 

Mr.  L by  this  time  appeared  at  the  door,  and  asked, 

with  some  sternness,  the  meaning  of  all  this. 

"  I  must  see  the  face  of  that  child  !"  said  Mr.  Milford,  but  in 
a  more  subdued  voice  ;  at  the  same  time  he  bent  over  so  as  to 
get  a  view  of  the  babe's  features.  At  this,  Mrs.  L turn- 
ed the  child  so  that  its  little  face  could  be  seen  by  all. 

"The  other  child!  Where  is  it?"  eagerly  exclaimed  the 
excited  man,  and  he  made  a  movement  to  pass  into  the  house. 

"  What  other  child  ?"  asked  Mr.  L .  "  There  is  no 

other  child  here." 

"  Where  is  the  woman  that  came  here  some  days  ago?" 

"  No  woman  came  here,"  said  the  minister,  in  a  decided  voice. 

"What!"  Mr.  Milford  leaned  against  the  door.  "Is  there 
not  a  strange  woman  and  a  babe  here  ?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Is  your  name  Mr.  L ?"  asked  Mr.  Milford,  his  face 

beginning  to  grow  pale  and  his  lips  to  quiver. 

"  It  is,"  was  replied. 

"The  Rev.  Mr.  L ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  has  there  not  been  a  strange  woman  and  child  in  your 
house  for  some  days  past?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Was  there  a  strange  young  girl  here  to-day  ?" 

"  I  don't  remember.  Was  there  ?"  Mr.  L turned  to 

his  wife. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  woman.  "  A  girl  called  at  the  door  this 
morning,  and  asked  if  I  would  let  her  sit  down  and  rest  for  a 
little  while.  She  said  she  had  walked  out  from  Lancaster  and 
was  a  good  deal  fatigued." 


260          SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER. 

"  Deceived !  deceived  !  deceived  !"  groaned  the  unhappy  fath- 
er, clasping  his  hands  together,  and  sinking  down  upon  a  chair 
that  stood  in  the  porch. 

The  officer  explained,  in  a  few  words,  to  Mr.  L and 

his  wife,  the  object  of  their  visit.  They  were,  as  might  well  be 
supposed,  profoundly  astonished  ;  at  the  same  time  that  all  their 
sympathies  were  awakened  for  the  unhappy  individual  who  had 
come  to  their  quiet  home  in  the  confident  hope  of  finding  the  dear 
babe  he  had  lost. 

The  whole  story  of  the  girl  was  a  fabrication,  evidently  in- 
tended to  mislead.  But  what  her  object  could  be  in  so  basely 
trifling  with  his  feelings,  Mr.  Milford  could  not  imagine,  and  so 
he  expressed  himself. 

"  Let  us  go  back  immediately,"  said  the  officer.  "  I  will 
take  this  girl  before  the  Mayor,  and  wrest  from  her  the  truth. 
In  all  probability,  the  parties  you  seek  are  somewhere  in  the 
neighborhood.  She  has,  doubtless,  fallen  in  with  them,  and  they 
have  induced  her  to  play  a  false  part  towards  you." 

At  the  death  of  one  hope,  another  sprung  up. 

"  Yes — yes.  This  is  is  no  doubt  true,"  replied  Mr.  Milford, 
starting  to  his  feet.  "  Come  !  Let  us  return  quickly.  The  girl 
will  no  doubt  make  an  effort  to  escape,  but  we  must  prevent  that." 

After  a  hurried  apology  for  their  intrusion  into  the  quiet  family 
of  the  minister,  Mr.  Milford  and  the  officer  drove  off  for  the  city 
at  a  speed  even  greater  than  that  at  which  they  had  come  out. 
On  arriving  at  the  hotel,  inquiries  were  made  for  the  girl. 

"  She  left  in  the  cars  that  started  for  Philadelphia  a  few  mo- 
mentes  ago,"  was  the  reply  of  the  landlord. 

Mr.  Milford  uttered  no  word.  He  felt  a  dead  weight  at  his 
heart.  The  hope  of  finding  his  child  through  the  aid  of  Jane 
was  gone,  and  without  her  aid  the  hope  of  finding  it  at  all  burn- 
ed with  only  a  feeble,  flickering  light.  He  had  been  deceived 
— cruelly  deceived. 

"  Do  not  give  up,"  urged  the  officer.  "  The  object  of  your 
search  may  be  here  ;  and,  if  so,,  we  shall  be  able  to  find  her." 

But  Mr.  Milford  shook  his  head. 

"  No — "  he  replied.  "  She  is  not  here.  It  was  all  a  ruse  to 
get  me  out  of  Philadelphia,  and  abate  the  vigilance  of  the  police 
until  the  woman  escaped.  Doubtless  she  was  there  when  I  left 
the  city.  But  she  is  gone  now,  and  there  is  no  way  by  which 
we  may  tell  the  direction  she  has  taken." 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  261 

So  well  was  Mr.  Milford  satisfied  of  this  fact,  that  he  made 
no  further  inquiries  in  Lancaster,  but  waited,  impatiently,  for  the 
next  train  of  cars,  and  then  started  for  Philadelphia.  In  that 
city,  all  efforts  to  gain  any  intelligence  whatever  of  the  fugitives 
proved  utterly  vain.  Baltimore  was  then  visited  ;  also  Wash- 
ington City,  Annapolis,  Frederick,  York,  Harrisburg,  and  various 
places  besides  in  Maryland  and  Pennsylvania,  but  without  ob- 
taining a  word  of  information. 

Sick  in  body  and  mind — disappointed  and  almost  helpless — 
Mr.  Milford  went  back  to  New  York,  after  an  absence  of  nearly 
two  months.  His  wife  had,  by  this  time,  to  some  extent  recov- 
ered her  reason,  and  was  awaiting  his  return  with  an  anxiety 
that  may  well  be  conceived.  But  he  had  no  good  news  to  bring. 
No  intelligence  that  brought  to  her  mind  a  gleam  of  hope. 


CHAPTER  X. 

When  Anne  escaped  with  the  child  from  the  infuriated  woman, 
whose  anger  she  had  braved  in  defence  of  the  babe,  she  ran  as 
fast  as  her  feet  would  carry  her  to  the  residence  of  the  physician 
before  mentioned.  He  was  in  his  office  when  she  entered.  Her 
face  was  flushed  with  excitement,  and  she  exhibited  strong  agi- 
tation. The  physician  knew  her  the  moment  she  came  in. 

"  Is  the  child  worse  ?"  he  inquired,  as  the  girl  stood  panting 
before  him. 

"  No,"  she  said,  trying  to  speak  with  a  composure  that  she 
did  not  feel,  at  the  same  time  glancing  with  a  look  of  anxiety 
from  the  window.  "  No,  it  is  not  worse  than  when  you  saw  it ; 
but  the  medicine  has  been  spilled." 

"  Before  any  of  it  was  given  to  the  child  -"' 

"  Yes." 

The  physician  without  asking  any  further  questions  made 
another  preparation  of  medicine,  which  was  poured  down  the 
throat  of  the  insensible  babe.  After  this  had  been  done,  he  said 
to  Anne, 

"  You  are  the  sister  of  this  child  I  presume  ?" 


262          SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER. 

Anne  shook  her  head  and  simply  replied,  in  an  evasive  manner, 
"  No." 

"  You  called  the  woman  with  whom  you  were  in  company, 
<  Mother.' " 

"  Yes." 

"  This  is  her  child  ?" 

Anne  remained  silent ;  but  it  was  plain  that  a  powerful  strug- 
gle was  going  on  in  her  mind.  She  bent  her  face  to  the  floor 
in  order  to  conceal  its  expression.  When  she  looked  up,  which 
was  in  a  few  moments,  her  countenance  had  a  composed  aspect, 
and  she  then  said, 

"  No.     It  is  not  her  child." 

"  What  then  is  she  doing  with  it  ?"  asked  the  doctor,  upon 
whose  mind  vague  suspicions  were  intruding  themselves.' 

"  That  is  of  no  consequence  now  to  know,"  was  answered. 
"  Enough  that  I  have  fled  from  her  to  save  its  life  ;  and  that  I 
intend  restoring  it  to  those  who  have  the  best  right  to  have  it, 
let  the  consequences  to  me  be  what  they  may.  With  this  end 
in  view  I  now  seek  your  aid  and  protection.  As  a  physician, 
you  can  see  that  there  is  something  wrong  about  the  child,  and 
the  nature  of  this  you  will  understand  when  I  tell  you  that  for 
three  months  it  has  been  under  the  constant  influence  of  pare- 
goric and  laudanum." 

An  exclamation  of  painful  surprise  escaped  the  physician's 
lips,  as  he  reached  out  his  hands  and  said — 

"  Let  me  see  the  child." 

After  looking  at  it  and  examining  it  for  a  good  while,  he 
reached  it  back  to  the  girl,  remarking,  with  a  slow  shake  of  the 
head— 

"  Bad— bad— bad." 

"  Do  you  think  it  dangerously  ill,  doctor  ?"  asked  Anne, 
with  a  real  anxiety  in  her  manner,  that  gave  the  physician  confi- 
dence in  her  good  intentions  and  right  feelings  towards  the  child. 

"  I  can  tell  little  about  it,  as  I  said  to  your  mother  not  long 
ago,"  he  replied,  "  until  the  effects  of  the  laudanum  it  has  taken 
has  passed  off.  That  will  not  be  for  some  hours  yet." 

"  For  some  hours!"  These  words  were  uttered  with  a  look 
of  distress,  and  the  girl  glanced  hurriedly  from  the  window  as 
she  spoke. 

"  Did  I  understand  you  to  say  ?"  inquired  the  doctor,  "  that 
you  had  come  to  me  seeking  aid  and  protection  for  this  child  ?" 


THE    CHILD   STEALER.  263 

"  That  is  what  I  said."  The  girl  looked  earnestly  into  his 
face. 

"  What  protection  can  I  afford  you  ?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"  Conceal  me  from  my  mother  in  your  house,  or  any  where  else, 
until  the  child  is  better,  so  that  I  can  take  it  back  to  its  friends, 
which  I  am  now  resolved  to  do." 

"  Who  are  its  friends  ?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"  Where  do  they  live  ?" 

"  Ask  me  nothing  more  now.  Believe  that  what  I  have  told 
you  is  true,  and  let  humanity  lead  you  to  grant  my  request." 

The  physician  mused  for  some  time  in  doubt  what  course  to 
pursue. 

"  Wait  a  few  moments,"  he  at  length  said,  and  turning  from 
the  girl,  went  back  into  his  house  to  hold  a  short  consultation 
with  one  or  two  members  of  his  family.  When  he  came  back 
into  the  office,  he  was  accompanied  by  his  wife,  who,  in  her 
turn,  asked  many  questions  of  Anne.  But  the  girl,  while  she 
fully  admitted  that  the  child  did  not  belong  to  her  mother,  and 
had  been  drugged,  almost  daily,  for  two  or  three  months,  was 
yet  exceedingly  cautious  in  her  replies,  from  which  nothing  cer- 
tain touching  the  real  friends  of  the  babe  could  be  elicited.  Her 
manner,  however,  left  no  doubt  upon  the  minds  of  the  physician 
and  his  wife  that  her  story  about  the  child  was  true,  and  her  in- 
tention to  restore  it  to  its  friends  earnest  and  sincere.  After 
some  conference  on  the  subject,  it  was  determined  to  place  her, 
for  the  present,  in  the  family  of  a  poor  but  kind-hearted  woman 
-who  lived  close  by.  To  subdue  the  disease  that  was  preying 
upon  the  little  sufferer,  was  the  first  work  to  be  done.  After  that 
was  accomplished,  if  the  thing  were  possible,  it  would  be  time 
enough  to  look  further  into  the  strange  case. 

Acting  upon  this  view,  the  physician  took  Anne  and  the  babe 
to  the  house  of  the  woman  mentioned,  which  stood  a  little  back 
from  the  main  street,  and  near  to  where  he  lived. 

Nourishing  food  and  tender  care  proved  to  be  every  thing  to 
the  child,  and  in  the  course  of  ten  days  she  was  so  far  recovered 
that  Anne  expressed  a  wish  to  continue  her  journey. 

From  the  time  she  became  an  inmate  of  the  family  where  the 
doctor  had  kindly  placed  her,  Anne  had  maintained  as  much  re- 
serve as  was  possible.  Many  questions  were  asked  that  she 
could  not  decline  answering  altogether ;  but  in  replying,  she  had 


264  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

said  as  little  as  possible,  and  that  had  always  been  vague  and 
unsatisfactory  to  her  auditors.  When  she  mentioned  to  the  wo- 
man with  whom  she  was  staying,  her  wish  to  go,  that  person 
said,  in  reply — 

"  Anne,  you  must  not  be  surprised  at  what  I  am  going  to 
say.  From  your  own  admission,  it  is  plain  that  you  have  no 
right  to  the  possession  of  this  child.  You  have  obtained  it  by 
improper  means,  and  it  ought  immediately  to  be  restored  to  its 
friends — or  to  its  parents,  if  they  are  living." 

"  Just  what  I  am  most  anxious  to  do,"  replied  Anne,  inter- 
rupting the  woman.  "  It  is  for  this  purpose  that  I  wish  to  leave 
here  as  soon  as  the  child  can  be  safely  removed." 

"  But  I  am  sure  the  doctor  will  object  to  your  going." 

"  Why  should  he  ?"  asked  Anne,  with  a  troubled  look. 

"  He  will  consider  it  his  duty  to  detain  you  until  he  can  com- 
municate with  the  friends  of  the  child." 

"  Has  he  said  this  ?"  inquired  the  girl,  in  a  firm  voice. 

"He  has." 

Anne  bent  her  head  to  the  floor,  and  sat  musing  for  a  good 
while. 

"  The  doctor  could  not  act  otherwise,"  said  the  woman, 
breaking  in  upon  her  abstraction.  "  There  was  a  great  deal  of 
excitement  a  few  months  ago  about  an  infant  having  been  stolen 
from  its  parents  in  New  York  under  distressing  circumstances, 
and  this  naturally  puts  all  on  their  guard.  How  do  we  know 
that  the  child  you  have  is  not  this  yery  one  ?" 

The  woman  did  not  see  the  deep  flush  that  covered  the  face 
of  Anne,  which  was  now,  besides  being  bent  down,  turned 
partly  away. 

"  Then  I  am  to  understand,"  said  she,  firmly,  after  sitting  silent 
for  awhile,  looking  up  as  she  spoke,  "  that  the  doctor  does  not 
intend  to  let  me  go  away  ?" 

"  Not  yet,  Anne.  It  would  be  wrong  for  him,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, to  permit  it.  If  you  really  desire  to  restore  this  babe 
to  its  friends,  inform  the  doctor  who  they  are.  He  will  imme- 
diately write  to  them,  and  they  will  come  themselves  and  receive 
it  from  your  hands." 

The  girl  merely  compressed  her  lips  firmly,  and  slightly  shook 
her  head.  The  woman  continued  to  talk,  but  she  maintained  a 
perfect  silence,  and  never  after,  while  she  remained  in  the  house, 
did  she,  either  to  the  woman  or  the  doctor,  give  the  slightest  re- 


THE   CHILD    STEALER.  265 

sponse  to  any  question  or  proposal  touching  the  child.     On  that 
subject,  she  continued  to  observe  the  most  perfect  silence. 


CHAPTER  XL 

Mr.  Milford  had  partly  recovered  from  the  paralyzing  effects 
of  his  late  severe  disappointment,  and  his  mind  was  beginning 
to  mature  new  plans  of  operation  looking  to  the  recovery  of  his 
child,  when  he  one  morning  received  by  post  the  following  let- 
ter from  a  small  town  in  Pennsylvania. 

"  DEAR  SIR  : — After  some  effort,  I  have  succeeded  in  finding 
a  copy  of  the  '  New  York  Evening  Post,'  published  a  few  months 
back,  in  which  I  saw  a  notice  that  you  had  lost  a  child,  and  I 
write  to  you  immediately  to  say,  that  a  woman  and  a  young 
girl  came  to  our  village  two  weeks  ago,  having  in  their  posses- 
sion an  infant  about  six  months  old,  which,  by  the  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  girl  to  me,  did  not  rightfully  belong  to  either  of 
them.  The  child  being  ill,  I,  as  a  physician,  was  called  in.  I 
saw,  at  once,  that  something  was  wrong ;  for  the  child  was  in  a 
heavy,  drugged  sleep,  and  the  reason  given  for  having  adminis- 
tered a  dose  so  powerful,  did  not  satisfy  me.  After  leaving  a 
prescription,  I  went  away,  promising  to  call  a  few  hours  later 
and  examine  the  child  more  carefully  after  the  effects  of  the 
laudanum  had  passed  off. 

"  It  appears  that,  soon  after  I  left,  the  woman  and  her  daugh- 
ter had  a  serious  quarrel ;  and  that,  while  it  was  progressing,  the 
former  threw  the  medicine  out  of  the  window,  and  made  some 
threat  against  the  child  ;  what,  I  have  not  been  able  to  learn. 
The  effect  of  this  was,  to  cause  the  girl  to  escape  from  her,  and 
throw  herself  upon  my  protection.  Her  only  thought  and  anx- 
iety appeared  to  be  for  the  child  ;  wrhich  was  indeed  very  ill,  and 
her  avowed  purpose  was  to  restore  it  to  its  parents.  No  mother 
could  have  regarded  a  babe  with  more  earnest  and  affectionate 
solicitude  than  she  did  this  one.-  We  could  scarcely  get  it  from 
her  arms,  and  she  never  once  lay  down,  nor  closed  her  eyes  in 
sleep,  until  I  pronounced  it  out  of  danger. 

"  Soon  after  this  girl  came  to  my  house  I  gave  such  informa- 
23 


266  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

tion  to  the  proper  authorities  as  would  lead  to  the  detention  of 
her  mother.  But  when  inquiry  was  made  for  her  at  the  tavern, 
she  was  not  to  be  found,  and  has  not  since  been  seen  in  the 
neighborhood. 

"  From  the  first,  I  sought,  diligently,  to  obtain  from  the  girl 
such  information  as  would  enable  me  to  ascertain  who  were  the 
real  friends  of  the  child,  that  I  might  communicate  with  them. 
But,  on  this  subject,  nothing  intelligible  could  be  learned.  She 
admitted  that  the '  child  had  been  taken  away  from  its  parents, 
and  she  at  the  same  time  avowed  it  as  her  purpose  to  restore 
it  to  their  possession  as  soon  as  it  was  well  enough  to  be  re- 
moved. As  in  duty  bound,  however,  I  objected  to  her  going 
away  alone,  and  earnestly  besought  her  to  let  me  know  who 
were  the  babe's  friends,  that  I  might  write  to  them.  But  she 
continued  to  maintain  the  most  entire  reserve  on  this  point.  In 
the  meantime,  I  was  making  every  effort  to  find  the  newspaper 
in  which  I  had  seen  a  notice  of  the  loss  you  had  sustained.  Not 
until  yesterday  did  I  succeed  in  obtaining  the  information  so 
much  desired  ;  but,  alas  !  it  was  just  too  late,  for  some  time  in 
the  middle  of  the  night  previous,  the  girl  escaped  with  the  infant, 
and  has  thus  far  baffled  all  efforts  to  discover  her. 

"  It  is  probable — very  probable — that  her  intention  is  to  re- 
store the  child  to  its  parents  immediately  ;  and,  if  it  is  yours,  I 
sincerely  hope  that  soon  after  this  reaches  you,  it  will  be  safely 
lodged  on  its  mother's  bosom. 

"  The  girl  of  whom  I  speak  is  a  little  above  the  medium 
height,  with  a  fair,  delicate,  interesting  face,  deep  blue  eyes,  and 
brown  hair.  She  is  retiring,  and  seems,  most  of  the  time,  to  be 
in  a  state  of  absent-mindedness.  Her  manners  are  easy,  and 
her  address  good.  I  could  not  help  feeling  prepossessed  in  her 
favor,  being  satisfied  that  the  false  position  she  held  to  society 
was  exceedingly  repugnant  to  her.  All  natural  regard  for  the 
woman  she  called  her  mother  appears  to  be  extinguished  in  her 
mind  ;  and  it  is  evidently  her  wish  that  the  separation  now  ex- 
isting shall  be  permanent. 

"  Of  one  thing,  my  dear  sir,  be  assured  ;  if  this  is  your  child, 
it  will  receive  the  kindest  treatment  at  her  hands.  No  mothet 
could  have  evinced  more  tenderness  and  anxiety ;  and  if  it 
is  not  already  restored,  I  am  sure  it  will  be  right  speedily. 
Do  not  deal  with  the  unhappy  girl  too  harshly,  if  she  does 
come  in  person  and  present  you  your  child.  Some  intention 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  267 

like  this  seemed  to  be  in  her  mind,  and:!  do  earnestly  hope  that 
it  will  have  been  acted  upon  by  the  time  this  reaches  you.  There 
is  good  in  the  girl,  however  her  associations  and  the  warping 
nature  of  circumstances  may  have  bent  her  character  from  its 
natural  upright  form,  and  <  if  it  leads  her  to  make  restitution  for 
evil,  it  ought  not  to  be  extinguished  by  visiting  upon  her  head, 
to  the  fullest  extent,  the  Iegal"consequences  of- her  conduct. 
"Yours,  &c.,  • 

j L ." 

Again  was  the  whole  mind  of  Mr.  Milford  aroused  to  the  hierh- 
est  pitch  of  anxiety  and  hope.  His  hands,  with  both  of  which 
he  had  grasped  the  letter,  trembled  so  after  he  had  read  the  first 
line,  that  it  was  with  difficulty  he  could  make  out  the  words  and 
connect  them  into  sentences.  As  soon,  however,  as  he  under- 
stood clearly  the  contents  of  the  letter,  he  left  his  store  and  hur- 
ried home  to  read  it  to  his  wife,  whose  mind  was  gradually  at- 
taining clearness  of  perception,  and,  with  it,  strength  to  bear  the 
exquisite  pain  it  brought.  He  found  her  kind  friend  Mrs.  Lewis 
with  her. 

"  News  of  our  child  !"  he  said,  with  much  agitation  of  man- 
ner as  he  came,  hurriedly,  into  the  room  where  they  were  sitting, 
holding  the  letter  he  had  received.,  in  his  hand. 

Mrs.  Milford  became  instantly  pale,  while  the  expression  of 
her  face  was  painful  in  its  blended  eagerness  and  hope.  Her 
husband  read  the  letter  he  had  received  aloud,  yet  in  an  agita- 
ted manner.  When  he  had  concluded,  Mrs.  Milford  was  weep- 
ing violently,  and  Mrs.  Lewis  was  by  her  side  with  earnestly 
uttered  words  of  encouragement. 

Before  the  first  excitement  produced  by  this  intelligence  had 
subsided,  and  while  the  tears  were  still  glistening  on  the  sad 
face  of  the  unhappy  mother,  a  slight  confusion  of  voices  was 
heard  in  the  hall  below,  followed  by  the  sound  of  light  feet 
quickly  ascending  the  stairs.  A  moment  more  and  the  door  of 
the  room  in  which  they  were  sitting  opened,  and  Mary  Smith, 
as  she  had  called  herself,  or  rather  Anne,  entered  with  the  lost 
babe  in  her  arms.  This  sudden  appearance  completely  paral- 
ized  the  mother,  and  she  sat,  almost  motionless,  with  staring 
eyes  and  cheeks  blanched  to  ashy  paleness.  But  Mrs.  Lewis 
sprung  forward,  and  taking  the  child  from  the  girl,  laid  it  in  her 
arms  and  against  her  bosom.  Oh  !  what  a  wild  thrill  of  delight 
passed  electrically  through  the  mother's  frame,  as  she  felt  her 


268  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

babe  once  more  upon  her  breast.  Her  mind,  that  was  just  sink- 
ing beneath  the  excitement  of  joy  at  the  recovery  of  her  child, 
as  it  had  before  sunk  under  its  loss,  rallied  with  the  thrilling 
touch,  and  she  clasped  the  babe  tightly  to  her  bosom,  while 
murmured  thanks  to  Heaven  for  its  restoration,  fervently  breathed, 
fell  from  her  quivering  lips. 

Mr.  Milford  was  so  overcome  that  he  was  unable  to  stand,  and 
he  grasped  tightly  the  chair  into  which  he  had  almost  fallen  in 
order  to  support  himself.  For  a  time  no  one  thought  of  or  spoke 
to  Anne,  who  remained  standing  near,  a  silent  but  by  no  means 
indifferent  spectator  of  what  was  passing.  When  Mrs.  Lewis, 
recollecting  herself,  turned  her  eyes  and  thoughts  upon  the  girl, 
she  saw  that  tears  were  glistening  beneath  her  drooping  lashes, 
and  that  upon  her  young  and  really  beautiful  face,  was  a  pro- 
found expression  of  sadness.  In  spite  of  the  unfavorable  opin- 
ion which  she  had  necessarily  formed  of  her,  Mrs.  Lewis  could 
not  help  feeling  a  strange  interest  in  the  girl,  and  an  instant  de- 
sire to  save  her  from  the  serious  consequences  likely  to  fall  upon 
her  if  she  were  delivered  over  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  law, 
charged  with  the  dreadful  crime  of  child-stealing.  Rising,  she 
advanced  to  where  she  was  standing,  and  looking  her  in  the 
face,  said, 

"  Come." 

The  girl  turned  and  followed  her  into  another  room. 

"  Sit  down  here,"  said  Mrs.  Lewis,  when  they  were  alone, 
pointing  to  a  chair  beside  one  that  she  had  taken. 

Anne  obeyed  in  silence,  but  with  her  large,  earnest  eyes  fixed 
intently  upon  the  face  of  Mrs.  Lewis. 

There  was  a  pause  of  some  moments. 

"  Your  name  is  not  Mary  Smith  ?"  said  Mrs.  Lewis,  merely 
to  break  ground  between  them. 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"  It  is  Anne,"  resumed  Mrs.  Lewis. 

A  quick  flush  of  surprise  went  over  her  face. 

"  We  learned  as  much,"  continued  Mrs.  Lewis,  thinking  it 
best  to  approach  the  girl  in  this  way,  "  from  a  letter  just  re- 
ceived from  Doctor  L— ,  giving  information  of  the  fact  that 

you  were  in  the  town  where  he  resided." 

The  girl,  at  this  remark,  became  strongly  agitated. 

"  Did  he  say  I  was  kind  to  the  babe  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  low, 
tremulous,  earnest  voice. 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  269 

"  He  did,"  replied  Mrs.  Lewis  ;  "  as  kind  as  a  mother  could 
have  been." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that !— glad  of  that !"  said  the  girl,  with  much 
apparent  emotion.  "  Bad  as  I  am,  I  never  was  unkind  to  a 
babe." 

"  But  why,  Anne — why  did  you  take  it  from  its  mother  ? 
That  was  not  only  unkind,  but  cruel !" 

A  slight  tremor  went  through  the  girl's  frame.  But  she  did 
not  reply. 

"  Yes,"  resumed  Mrs.  Lewis,  "  that  was  a  cruel  thing.  To 
rob  a  mother  of  her  babe  as  you  did.  Oh!  it  was  a  most  wick- 
ed act.  No  language  can  picture  the  suffering  you  occasioned. 
The  death  of  the  child  would  have  been  nothing  in  comparison. 
How,  how  could  you  find  it  in  your  heart  to  commit  such  a  dread- 
ful wrong  ?" 

The  slight  tremor  which  had  been  observed  in  Anne's  frame, 
deepened  into  strong  agitation  ;  and  the  excitement  of  her  mind 
at  length  expended  itself  in  a  wild  paroxysm  of  tears.  Mrs. 
Lewis  waited  until  she  had  grown  calm,  her  interest  in  the  girl 
increasing  every  moment.  She  then  said — 

"  I  cannot  think  you  are  all  bad — that  you  are  wicked  and 
cruel  by  nature.  And  yet,  Anne,  this  act  of  deceiving  a  mother 
so  deliberately,  that  you  might  rob  her  of  her  babe,  is  of  such  a 
dreadful  character,  that,  when  I  think  of  it,  I  can  hardly  imagine 
the  person  who  could  be  guilty  of  the  deed  to  possess  a  single 
redeeming  quality  of  mind.  What — what  could  have  tempted 
you  to  engage  in  such  cruel  work?" 

Anne,  who  had  by  this  time  recovered  her  self-command, 
raised  her  eyes  to  the  face  of  Mrs.  Lewis,  and  looked  at  her  for 
some  moments. 

"  I  can  hardly  hope,"  she  murmured,  in  a  sad  voice,  "  to 
make  any  one  believe,  after  having  done  so  -wicked,  so  cruel  a 
thing,  that  I  have  a  single  good  quality  in  me.  But  I  have  not 
come  here  to  ask  you  to  think  well  of  me ;  nor  with  the  hope  of 
mercy.  I  could  have  left  the  babe  where  its  parents  could  have 
got  it  again,  and  escaped  myself.  But,  I  do  not  care  to  do  that. 
I  wished  to  atone  for  my  crime  as  far  as  I  could,  by  safely  de- 
livering the  babe  into  its  home,  leaving  all  consequences  to  my- 
self out  of  the  question  entirely.  Indeed,  in  the  state  of  mind 
to  which  I  have  been  reduced,  I  think  little  about  consequences. 
I  know  of  none  more  to  be  dreaded  than  the  life  I  have  led  for 
23* 


270  SKETCHE'S  OF  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER. 

the  last  few  years.  Heaven  knows  I  would  rather  die  than  pass 
over  it  again  !" 

"  But  why  did  you  consent  to  lead  such  a  life  ?  inquired 
Mrs.  Lewis. 

"  Why?  Ask  the  child  why  it  obeys  its  parent!"  returned 
Anne,  with  a  flushing  cheek. 

"  Then  what  you  did  was  repugnant  to  your  feelings?" 

"  Oh,  madam  !"  said  Anne,  looking  into. the  fa,c.e  of  Mrs.  Lew- 
is with  an  expression  that  appealed  at  once  to  -her  heart ;  "  If 
you  could  only  know  how  my  heart  has  ached  w.hile  I  obeyed 
my  mother,  you  would  pity  me.  If, you  could  only  know  how 
the  struggle  I  have  had  for  years  between  duty  and  aifection  for 
my  mother,  and  my  own  awakening  sense  of  right,  you  would 
not  think  so  badly  of  me  as  you  ;now  do.  Mine  has  been  a 
dreadful  life  ;  but  the  worst  evil  of  it  is  at  last  over.  Imprison- 
ment will  be  nothing  to  the  past.  Shut  up  in  a  quiet  cell,  I 
would  be  safe  from  those  who  would  drag  me  along  evil  ways, 
and  have  time  to  repent  and  pray." 

The  lips  of  the  girl  again  quivered,  and  her  voice  choked  and 
sunk  into  a  low  sob.  The  feelings  of  Mrs.  Lewis  were  deeply 
touched. 

"  For  what  end  did  your  mother  get  possession  of  this  babe  ?" 
she  asked. 

"  It  was  a  means  of  creating  sympathy  in  the  minds  of  kind- 
hearted  but  weak  people,  from  whom  money  could  be  ob- 
tained." 

"  Was  that  the  sole  purpose  in  view  ?" 

"  It  was.  A  mother,  with  a  young  babe  in  her  arms,  and  in 
destitute  circumstances,  does  not  often  ask  for  aid  in  vain,  if  she 
be  careful  to  make  her  appeals  in  the  right  way  and  to  the  right 
persons." 

"  Did  your  mother  get  much  money  in  this  way  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  A  good  deal  more  than  we  ever  spent.  She  has 
money  laid  up  in  the  Savings'  Bank  here,  also  in  Boston,  and  at 
two  or  three  other  places." 

"  In  what  name  ?" 

"  Do  not  ask  me  that!"  said  the  girl,  quickly.  "  Is  she  not 
my  mother  ?" 

There  was  a  touching  pathos  in  the  way  this  was  said. 

"  If  no  effort  is  made  to  detain  you  here,  will  you  go  back  to 
your  mother  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Lewis. 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  271 

"  Never !"  was  most  emphatically  replied.  "While  a  child 
I  might  be  obedient  to  her  and  not  sin ;  but  that  time  is  past. 
We  can  never  be  as  mother  and  daughter  again.  I  have  al- 
ready done  too  much  violence  to  my  own  clear  sense  of  right." 

"  If  at  liberty  now  to  retire,  free  of  all  consequences,  where 
would  you  go  ? — or  what  would  you  do  ?" 

"  I  know  not  where  I  would  go,  nor  what  I  would  do,"  she 
returned  sadly. 

"  Have  you  money  ?" 

Anne  shook  her  head. 

"  How  did  you  get  here  ?" 

"  I  had  just  enough  to  pay  my  way  to  New  York." 

"  All  is  not  evil,"  said  Mrs.  Lewis  to  herself.  "  Heinous  as 
her  offence  has  been,  it  may  not  be  well  to  visit  upon  her  its  se- 
verest consequence.  She  has  not  been  a  free  agent  in  this  mat- 
ter. Now  that  she  has  asserted  her  freedom,  and  acts  from  her 
own  native  impulses,  she  turns  to  good,  and  makes  restitution 
as  far  as  in  her  lies." 

"  Anne,"  and  the  lady  again  addressed  the  girl, — "  if  I  can 
prevail  upon  these  people  to  spare  you,  will  you  come  into  my 
family  for  a  short  time  ?  If  your  repentance  prove  sincere,  I 
will  obtain  for  you  some  useful  employment  in  which  you  will 
be  freed  from  the  temptations  of  your  past  unhappy  life." 

"  Do  with  me  as  you  will,"  returned  Anne,  exhibiting  a  cer- 
tain abandonment  of  manner,  that  indicated  a  humbled,  almost 
broken  spirit.  "  I  have  little  to  hope  for  in  life  now.  From  the 
one  I  should  love,  I  have  turned  away ;  and  we  can  never  again 
be  to  each  other  what  we  once  were.  There  is  no  one  now  for 
me  to  look  to ;  no  one  whom  I  can  call  my  friend." 

"  A  new  life  will  bring  new  friends,  Anne,"  returned  Mrs. 
Lewis,  who,  every  moment  felt  herself  growing  more  and  more 
interested  in  the  young  girl,  about  whom  there  was  an  intelli- 
gence and  a  moral  sense  far  beyond  what  she  had  at  first  sup- 
posed to  exist.  "  Let  us  hope  for  the  best.  And  now,  do  you 
remain  here  for  a  little  while.  I  will  see  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Milford, 
and  say  all  I  can  in  your  favor." 

When  Mrs.  Lewis  returned  to  the  overjoyed  parents,  and  re- 
lated what  had  passed  between  her  and  Anne,  coming  as  it  did 
upon  the  favorable  impression  produced  by  the  letter  of  Doctor 

L ,  and  added  to  the  fact,  that  the  girl  had  voluntarily 

come  oack  under  circumstances  of  sacrifice  and  pain  to  herself, 


272  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

she  found  no  difficulty  in  prevailing  upon  them  to  yield  to  her 
wishes. 

"  You  are  to  go  with  me,  if  you  will,"  said  Mrs.  Lewis,  on 
returning  to  the  room  vhere  she  had  left  Anne. 

A  light  glanced  fitfully  across  the  girl's  countenance,  as  these 
words  fell  upon  her  ears.  She  did  not  reply,  but  there  was  a 
look  of  gratitude  upon  her  suffering  face  as  she  arose  to  accom- 
pany the  lady.  They  were  near  the  street  door,  when  she  paused 
and  said,  in  a  hesitating  voice — 

"  May  I  not  see  the  baby  before  I  go  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes." 

And  they  turned  and  went  up  stairs  again. 

"  Anne  wishes  to  see  the  baby  before  she  goes,"  said  Mrs. 
Lewis,  as  they  entered  the  room  where  Mrs.  Milford  sat  beside 
her  husband,  with  her  babe  still  drawn  tightly  to  her  bosom. 

Mr.  Milford  slightly  frowned,  and  Mrs.  Milford  was  disturbed 
by  the  request.  But  no  objection  was  made.  Anne  came  for- 
ward timidly.  As  the  mother  let  her  arm  fall,  and  thus  turned 
the  face  of  little  Blanche  outwards,  Anne  stooped  down  and 
kissed  her  tenderly.  When  she  rose  up  quickly  and  turned 
away,  there  was  a  tear  on  the  fair  brow  of  the  unconscious 
babe. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Anne  had  not  been  long  in  the  family  of  Mrs.  Lewis,  before 
that  lady,  in  spite  of  many  arguments  held  with  herself,  formed 
an  attachment  for  her ;  and  Mr.  Lewis,  though  his  prejudice 
was  at  first  instinctive  and  strong,  found  it  gradually  wearing 
away,  until  it  changed  to  a  sentiment  kindred  with  that  of  his 
wife. 

Though  raised  by  such  a  mother,  the  girl  had  not  been  entire- 
ly neglected.  For  several  years  she  had  been  at  school  in  the 
vicinity  of  Boston,  and  having,  naturally,  an  intelligent  mind, 
had,  during  the  time,  acquired  a  tolerably  good  education. 
There  was  an  air  of  refinement,  too,  in  her  manners,  and  a  na- 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  273 

live  grace  in  her  carriage,  that  no  one  could  help  observing. 
Month  after  month  she  remained  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lewis,  but 
in  entire  seclusion,  winning  upon  their  hearts  every  day ;  and 
every  day  feeling  more  and  more  drawn  to  them.  Gradually 
the  reserve  she  manifested  at  first  wore  off,  and  she  related  many 
sad  particulars  of  her  wandering  life.  But,  touching  the  woman 
whom  she  called  her  mother,  she  was  careful  to  give  no  informa- 
tion of  a  kind  likely  to  result  in  arrest  and  punishment.  The 
girl  who  had  accompanied  Mr.  Milford  to  Philadelphia  and  Lan- 
caster, she  said  she  knew  very  well ;  and  mentioned  that  she 
had  come  to  her  mother  shortly  after  the  child  was  taken,  and 
while  they  were  in  Philadelphia,  and  informed  her  that  Mr.  Mil- 
ford  was  in  the  city,  and  in  search  of  her.  It  was  then  agreed 
that  Jane  should  give  him  such  information  as  would  lead  him 
to  go  to  Lancaster,  while  they  escaped  from  the  city  in  another 
direction. 

"  But,  against  all  this  lying  and  wrong,"  said  Anne,  "  my 
heart  rebelled  more  and  more  every  day.  I  went  to  Mrs.  Mil- 
ford  and  told  a  story  that  had  been  put  into  my  mouth  by  my 
mother ;  but  I  told  it  with  painful  reluctance,  and  my  heart  was 
sad  in  view  of  the  great  evil  I  was  about  to  commit.  No  one 
knows  but  myself  the  struggle  it  cost  me  to  take  away  that  dear 
babe  from  its  mother,  nor  the  anguish  of  mind  I  suffered  after  it 
was  done.  Not  a  very  long  time  passed  before  the  thought  of 
restoring  it  entered  my  mind ;  but  whenever  this  was  done,  I 
was  well  satisfied  that  there  would  occur  an  angry  separa- 
tion between  myself  and  my  mother.  I  could  not  make  up  my 
mind  at  first  to  meet  this  consequence ;  but  at  last,  so  clearly 
did  I  see  what  it  was  right  for  me  to  do,  that  I  hesitated  no  lon- 
ger ;  and  I  have  ceased  not  since  to  be  thankful  that  I  had 
strength  to  carry  out  the  resolution  I  had  made." 

Once  more  in  her  mother's  arms,  little  Blanche  soon  recov- 
ered from  the  effects  of  the  sad  treatment  she  had  received  while 
in  the  possession  of  the  wretched  woman  who  had  obtained  and 
used  her  as  a  means  of  extorting  money  from  the  simple-minded 
and  credulous.  Anne  had  a  yearning  desire  to  see  the  child 
she  had  watched  over  for  months  with  more  than  a  common  in- 
terest ;  but  she  did  not  ask  for  permission  to  look  upon  its  sweet 
young  face.  She  knew  that  in  the  dwelling  of  Mr.  Milford,  her 
presence  would  be  thought  an  intrusion  and  her  breath  upon  the 
babe,  a  blight.  Since  she  had  been  in  the  house  of  Mr.  and 


274         SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER. 

Mrs.  Lewis,  and  more  especially  since  an  attachment  towards 
her  had  become  apparent,  the  parents  of  Blanche  had  shown  some 
coldness  towards  their  old  friends.  The  two  families  visited  far 
less  frequently ;  for  the  common  bond  of  sympathy  no  longer  ex- 
isted. While  the  babe  was  away,  a  mutual  bereavement  awoke 
a  kindred  and  uniting  sentiment.  But  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Milford  no 
longer  mourned  a  lost  child  ;  and  could  now  easily  find  reasons 
for  not  feeling  as  much  interest,  or  seeing  as  much  to  like,  in  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Lewis  as  before. 

The  interest  awakened  in  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Lewis  for  a  girl 
like  Anne,  presenting  herself  before  her  as  she  did,  under  such 
revolting  circumstances,  may  have  arisen,  and  probably  did,  to 
some  extent,  from  a  hope  that  through  her  connexion  with  a  wo- 
man, professedly  a  child  stealer,  she  might  be  able  to  give  her 
some  information  that  would  throw  a  gleam  of  light,  at  least, 
on  the  dark  cloud  that  hung  over  the  fate  of  her  own  lost  one. 
Many  and  various  were  the  questions  she  asked  of  Anne  on  this 
subject,  but  nothing  upon  which  her  mind  could  rest  with  any 
degree  of  confidence  was  elicited. 

One  day,  it  was  nearly  a  year  after  Anne  had  become  an  in- 
mate of  the  family,  Mrs.  Lewis  received  a  note,  written  on  a 
soiled  piece  of  paper,  desiring  her  to  come  immediately  to  a  cer- 
tain house  in  the  lower  part  of  the  city,  the  number  of  which  was 
given,  as  there  was  a  person  there,  near  to  death,  who  had  some- 
thing of  importance  to  communicate.  The  first  thought  of  Mrs. 
Lewis  was  of  her  lost  child.  She  obeyed  the  summons  instantly. 
The  house  at  which  she  called  proved  to  be  a  boarding  house, 
of  rather  common  description.  On  making  the  necessary  inqui- 
ries, she  was  shown  into  a  small  room  in  the  third  story  in  which 
were  two  persons. — One  a  woman,  evidently  very  ill  and  near 
to  her  end ;  and  the  other  probably  a  nurse  or  attendant. 

"  My  name  is  Mrs.  Lewis,"  said  the  visitor,  as  she  approach- 
ed the  bed.  "  Did  you  send  for  me  ?" 

With  a  motion  of  the  hand,  the  sick  woman  indicated  her  wish 
that  the  person  who  was  with  her  should  leave  the  room.  The 
attendant  arose  and  retired. 

"  Madam,"  said  the  stranger,  partly  rising  up  and  speaking 
in  a  hoarse  whisper  and  with  an  effort,  though  without  the  be- 
trayal of  much  feeling — "  Madam  !  sixteen  years  ago  I  did  you 
a  great  wrong!" 

"  My  child !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lewis,  in  the  eager  excitement 


THE    CHILD    STEALER.  275 

of  her  feelings,  and  unable  to  control  herself.  "  Does  she  yet 
live  ?" 

"  She  is  yet  alive,"  said  the  dying  woman. 

«  Thank  God  !  Thank  God  !  But  oh  !  where  is  she  ?  Quick ! 
Tell  me !  Where  will  I  find  my  child  ?" 

The  woman  made  an  effort  to  reply,  but,  though  her  lips 
moved,  no  sound  escaped,  and  she  sunk  back  upon  the  pillow 
from  which  she  had  arisen. 

"  Quick  !  Quick  !  Oh  !  speak  the  word !  Where  is  my 
child  ?" 

And  Mrs.  Lewis  bent  her  ear  close  to  the  lips  of  the  dying 
woman. 

"  In  your  own  house!  Her  name  is  Anne  !"  came  thrilling 
upon  her  ears  in  a  deeply  breathed  whisper. 

Ten  minutes  from  that  exciting  moment,  Mrs.  Lewis  came 
hurriedly  into  the  room  where  Anne  sat  reading. 

"  Anne  !"  she  exclaimed  wildly — "  Anne  !  I  have  found  my 
long  lost  child !" 

The  girl  clasped  her  hands  together  and  looked  up  with  sur- 
prise and  wonder.  When  the  words, 

"  Where  is  she  ?"  fell  from  her  lips,  she  was  in  the  arms  of 
Mrs.  Lewis,  and  the  answer  was — 

"  Here  !  Here,  with  her  head  against  her  mother's  breast ! 
Dear  Anne  !  you  are  my  long  lost  child  !  Heaven  has  been  good 
to  me  !  The  gloomy  night  is  past,  and  the  sun  has  risen  again. 
Oh !  I  will  be  thankful !  I  will  be  thankful !" 

Again  and  again  was  the  bewildered,  excited  and  weeping 
girl  clasped  to  her  mother's  bosom.  Her  cheeks  were  hot  with 
kisses,  and  her  sunny  hair  wet  with  tears  of  joy. 

If  a  doubt  intruded  upon  the  mother  it  was  quickly  dispelled. 
Her  eyes,  that  had  been  dim,  were  now  open,  and  she  saw  in 
the  face  of  Anne  the  features  of  her  own  sister ;  and  the  father, 
when  the  glad  news  came  to  him,  saw  in  his  recovered  child,  the 
likeness  of  her  mother,  and  wondered  that  he  had  not  seen  it 
before. 

On  the  day  after,  Anne  went  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lewis  to  see 
the  mortal  remains  of  the  woman,  who,  in  dying,  had  owned  to 
her  real  parentage.  She  proved  to  be  the  one  she  had  known 
from  infancy,  as  her  mother.  In  her  trunk  was  found  a  will,  in 
which  about  a  thousand  dollars,  deposited  in  a  savings  bank, 
was  bequeathed  to  Anne  Lewis,  daughter  of  James  and  Marga 


276  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

ret  Lewis  of  New  York.  Attached  to  the  will  was  a  paper  sworn 
to  before  a  magistrate,  which  made  all  clear  as  to  who  Anne 
Lewis  was.  There  were  points  in  the  succinct  history  it  gave 
which  the  parents  of  Anne  clearly  recognized,  and  they  knew, 
from  these,  that  the  main  fact  stated,  if  there  had  been  no  other 
evidence  satisfactory  to  them,  must  be  true. 


LOVE    TESTS    OF    HALLOWEEN. 


The'  eve  of  All-Saint's  Day  is  memorable  in  Scotland  as  a 
time  when  the  fairies  hold  a  grand  anniversary,  and  when  witch- 
es and  evil  beings  are  abroad  on  errands  of  mischief.  This  su- 
perstition, modified  in  various  ways,  finds  a  place,  also,  among 
the  peasantry  of  other  nations.  In  the  United  States,  Hallow- 
een used  to  be  observed  by  country  maidens  as  a  time  for  trying 
sweethearts,  and  gaining  such  an  intelligible  peep  into  futurity 
as  would  enable  them  to  find  out  whether  they  would  be  married 
or  not ;  and  if  that  happy  event  was  to  crown  their  lives,  who 
would  be  the  men  of  their  choice.  And  even  at  this  time, 
"  Hollow-Eve,"  as  it  is  called,  is  not  suffered  to  come  and  go 
without  the  effort  of  some  loving  maidens  to  penetrate  the  mys- 
tery of  their  future.  The  modes  of  trying  sweethearts,  and  the 
various  love  tests  applied,  are  curious  enough.  Burning  nuts, 
the  love  candles,  eating  an  apple  before  the  looking  glass  at 
midnight,  the  salt  egg,  and  dropping  melted  lead  through  a  key 
into  a  basin  of  water  are  a  few  of  them,  and  all  must  be  accom- 
panied by  particular  ceremonies,  or  incantations,  in  order  that 
they  may  have  the  desired  power  to  lift  the  veil  of  futurity. 

A  few  years  ago,  we  spent  Halloween  in  the  family  of  a  friend 
who  resides  fifty  miles  away  from  any  large  town,  in  the  inte- 
rior of  Pennsylvania.  He  had  three  marriageable  daughters, 
who,  it  may  be  presumed,  felt,  as  much  interest  in  the  great 
question  of  matrimony,  as  is  usual  in  girls  of  their  ages ;  and, 
on  the  occasion  referred  to,  something  of  what  they  thought  and 
felt  was  clearly  enough  displayed.  One  member  of  the  family 
was  an  old  aunt,  whose  kind,  gentle  character  and  cheerful  dis- 
position, made  her  a  favorite  with  all.  She  was  a  widow.  Twen- 
24  277 


278  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE   AND   CHARACTER. 

ty  years  had  gone  by  since  the  grass  became  green  over  the 
grave  of  her  husband.  She  often  referred  to  the  past,  but  not  in 
a  spirit  of  sadness  or  regret.  And  when  she  spoke  of  her  hus- 
band the  allusion  seemed  more  to  one  who  was  living  than  dead. 
And  living,  in  fact,  he  was  to  her.  The  deep  affection  that  was 
in  her  heart,  made  him  ever  present  to  her  thoughts,  and  she 
lived  in  full  confidence  of  a  re-union,  when  she,  too,  should  lay 
off  the  mortal  robes  that  enveloped  her  spirit,  and  rise  into  a  true 
and  substantial  life. 

To  be  with  Aunt  Edith  for  half  an  hour,  was  to  feel  towards 
her  as  towards  an  old  friend.  In  less  than  that  time,  on  our  first 
meeting,  I  was  as  much  at  home  with  her  as  if  we  had  been 
acquainted  for  years.  For  her  young  nieces  aunt  Edith  enter- 
tained the  warmest  affection.  It  is  doubtful  if  she  could  have  . 
loved  her  own  children  more  tenderly.  She  was  ever  ready  to 
take  an  interest  in  what  interested  them  ;  and  entered  into  all 
their  pleasures  with  a  heartiness  that  made  them  her  own.  On 
the  evening  to  which  I  have  refered,  as  we  sat  pleasantly  con- 
versing before  a  bright  fire  in  the  parlor,  almost  the  first  of  the 
season,  Aunt  Edith  said,  as  if  the  thought  had  just  occurred  to 
her,  addressing,  as  she  spoke,  the  oldest  of  her  neices — 

"  Why,  Maggy,  dear !  this  is  Hollow-Eve.  Have  you  for- 
gotten ?" 

"  So  it  is !"  cried  Maggy,  in  return,  clapping  her  hands  to- 
gether with  girlish  enthusiasm. 

"  Hollow-Eve  !"  chimed  in  Kate,  the  youngest  of  the  three. 
"  Oh !  we  must  try  sweethearts  to-night." 

"  Sweethearts !"  said  Mr.  Wilmot,  the  father  of  the  girls,  in  a 
grave  voice.  "  Nonsense  !  Nonsense  !  child  !  What  do  you 
want  to  know  about  sweethearts  ?" 

Kate  slightly  blushed  ;  but  her  smile  was  so  radiant  that  it 
quickly  extinguished  the  deep  hue  that  had  come  over  her 
bright  young'countenance.  She  did  not,  however,  reply  to  her 
father's  question,  but  looked  into  the  face  of  aunt  Edith  for  en- 
couragement. 

u  Wait  awhile,  dear,"  said  aunt  Edith.  "Your  father  don't 
understand  these  matters.  But  I  was  a  young  girl  once,  and 
know  all  about  them." 

"Trying  sweethearts!  Why,  I  thought  that  custom  was 
peculiar  only  to  the  Scotch  and  Irish  peasantry." 

Aunt  Edith  looked  at  me  and  smiled. 


LOVE    TESTS    OF   HALLOWEEN.  279 

"  In  cities,"  she  replied,  "  these  customs  are  hardly  known  ; 
but  here,  they  have  always  prevailed  among  portions  of  the  peo- 
ple. Halloween,  though  not  kept  with  the  formality  attending 
the  occasion  in  the  rural  districts  of  Ireland  or  Scotland,  is  yet 
remembered  by  hundreds  of  young  maidens,  who  live  far  away 
from  the  great  towns,  and  who  improve  the  occasion  to  get,  if 
possible,  a  peep  into  futurity,  and  read  therein  an  answer  to 
their  hearts'  eager  questions." 

"  Can  it  really  be,"  said  I,  in  return,  "  that  superstition  like 
this  prevails  in  an  age  and  among  a  people  so  enlightened.  For- 
tune tellers  would  find  a  rich  harvest  in  these  regions." 

"  Not  richer,  I  presume,"  returned  aunt  Edith,  "  than  among 
your  more  enlightened  dwellers  in  cities." 

"  True  ;  we  have  fortune-tellers  and  astrologers  in  abundance, 
and  they  appear  to  find  enough  silly  people  to  encourage  and 
support  them.  But  what  is  the  nature  of  these  love  tests  that  so 
many  of  your  country  maidens  apply  on  Hollow-Eve  ?" 

Aunt  Edith  smiled  as  she  answered — 

"  They  are  of  various  kinds.  Among  the  most  common  is  burn- 
ing nuts  on  the  hearth.  A  young  maiden  will  take  two  nuts,  and 
naming  one  for  the  man  who  is,  or  whom  she  would  like  to  have 
for,  her  sweetheart,  and  the  other  for  herself,  she  puts  them  in 
the  fire,  and  accordingly  as  they  burn  quietly  together,  or  start 
from  beside  one  another,  will  be  the  future  relation  borne  to- 
wards each  other  by  the  lad  and  lassie  !  Don't  you  remember 
these  verses  in  Burn's  '  Halloween'  ? 

'  The  auld  gudewife's  well  hoarded  nits 

Are  round  an'  round  divided, 
An'  monie  lads  an'  lasses'  fates 

Are  there  that  night  decided ; 
Some  kindle  couthie*,  side  by  side, 

And  burn  thegither  trimly ; 
Some  start  awa'  with  saucy  pride, 

And  jump  out  ower  the  chimlie 

Fu'  high  that  night. 

'  Jean  slips  in  I  (rain  wi'  tentie  e%,f 

What  'twas  she  wad  na  tell ; 
But  this  is  Jock  and  this  is  me, 

She  says  it  to  hersel ; 
He  bleez'd  ower  her  and  she  ower  him, 

As  they  wad  ne'er  more  part ! 

•  Lovingly.  f  Watchful  eye. 


280  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

Till  faff,*  he  started  up  the  lum,f 
An'  Jean  had  e'en  a  sair  heart 

To  see't  that  night,' 

The  girls  were  all  listening  with  fixed  attention,  and  even  Mr. 
Wilmot  was  interested. 

"  This,  as  I  remarked,"  continued  aunt  Edith,  "  is  one  of  the 
commonest  modes  of  trying  sweethearts.  There  are  many  oth- 
ers, and  some  of  them  involve  ordeals  that  would  make  the 
stoutest  nerves  quiver." 

"  Did  you  ever  try  any  of  them  ?"  I  enquired,  half  forgetting 
myself  in  asking  so  pointed  a  question. 

"  Perhaps  I  have,"  replied  aunt  Edith,  smilingly.  "A  young 
maiden  will  go  through  a  great  deal  in  order  to  get  some  kind  of 
an  answer  to  a  question  that  so  deeply  involves  her  happiness.  But 
you  musn't  expect  me  to  make  any  confessions." 

"  Oh  no,  we  won't  ask  that,"  said  I,  "  but  you  will  not  object 
to  relating  some  experiments  of  this  kind  that  you  have  known 
others  make  ?" 

"  Certainly  not.  When  I  was  a  young  girl,  a  great  deal 
more  attention  was  paid  to  the  Eve  of  All-Saint's  Day  than  at 
present,  and  love-stricken  lasses  would  look  forward  for  months 
for  its  arrival  in  order  to  try  their  sweethearts.  You  remember 
Lizzie  Wells,  afterwards  Mrs.  Jackson  ?" 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  replied  Mr.  Wilmot,  to  whom  the  question 
was  addressed. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  one  of  her  attempts  to  raise  the  spirit 
of  her  future  spouse.  Poor  girl !  It  turned  out  rather  a  serious 
matter  for  the  time.  She  was  a  timid,  bashful  thing,  and  was 
particularly  sensitive  when  any  one  jested  with  her  about  a 
sweetheart.  It  is  usually  the  case,  that  love-charms  are  tried  by 
at  least  two,  and  sometimes  three  or  four,  girls,  in  order  that  they 
may  brace  up  each  others'  courage.  But  Lizzie  had  no  sister 
as  a  confidante,  and  there  was  no  maiden  of  her  acquaintance 
to  whom  she  would  betray  the  anxiety  she  felt  on  the  momen- 
tous subject  of  love.  So,  on  Hallow-Eve,  she  must  try  her 
sweetheart  all  alone,  or  still  remain  in  doubt.  But  doubt  had 
pressed  upon  her  bosom,  until  it  could  be  borne  no  longer.  As 
the  day  that  closed  the  month  of  October  began  to  fade  into  twi- 
light, Lizzie's  resolution  in  regard  to  a  certain  experiment,  which 

•  With  a  puff,  or  bounce.  -j-  Chimney. 


LOVE    TESTS    OF   HALLOWEEN.  281 

had  been  strong  when  the  bright  sun  looked  down  from  the  sky, 
began  to  waver.  Clouds  had  heaved  themselves  up  in  the  west, 
and  the  cold  autumn  wind  began  to  moan  among  the  old  forest 
trees.  The  young  girl  felt  a  creeping  shudder  pass  through  her 
frame,  as  her  imagination  pictured  the  wierd  hour  of  midnight, 
and  herself,  alone,  seeking  by  strange  rites  to  conjure  up  the 
spirit  of  her  lover.  But,  the  thought  of  one  who,  of  all  others 
she  had  yet  seen,  embodied  in  her  eyes  the  highest  human  per- 
fections, and  the  uncertainty  that  accompanied  this  thought, 
brought  her  mind  back  again  to  its  first  resolution.  To  have 
some  sure  knowledge  on  this  subject  was  worth  almost  any  trial, 
and  the  strong  desire  she  felt  for  its  possession,  nerved  her  heart 
again  for  the  task  she  had  laid  upon  herself. 

"  As  night  closed  in,  the  air  became  tempestuous.  The  wind 
rushed  and  moaned  through  the  trees  that  were  near  and  around 
her  father's  dwelling.  Every  window  rattled  ;  and  the  shutters 
and  gates  seemed  as  if  moved  by  some  spirit-hands,  for  they  were 
still  scarcely  a  moment  at  a  time.  Lizzie  saw  in  all  this  distur- 
bance of  the  elements,  a  sign  that  weired  ones  were  abroad,  and 
you  may  well  suppose  that  her  heart  trembled  when  she  thought 
of  the  experiment  she  was  about  to  make.  When  Hallow-Eve 
occurred  just  one  year  before,  she  had  tried  one  of  the  ordinary 
love-charms;  but  its  indications  were  not  satisfactory  to  her 
mind." 

"  What  was  it?"  asked  Kate. 

"  The  salt  egg,"  replied  aunt  Edith. 

«  Oh !» 

"  The  salt  egg  !     What  is  that  ?"  I  enquired. 

"  One  or  two,  or  more  young  girls,  as  the  case  may  happen 
to  be,"  said  aunt  Edith,  "  sit  up  until  the  witching  hour  of  mid- 
night ;  then  in  the  ashes  they  roast  each  an  egg,  from  which,  af- 
ter it  is  done,  the  hard  yolk  is  taken,  and  the  cavity  made  in  the 
egg  by  this  removal  filled  with  salt.  Precisely  at  twelve  o'clock 
at  night,  the  white  of  the  egg  is  to  be  eaten  with  this  salt,  and 
then,  without  drinking,  the  parties  go  to  bed.  Of  course  they 
get  very  dry  in  the  night,  and  dream  of  water,  and  it  is  averred, 
that,  in  the  dream,  the  spirit  of  the  lover  presents  a  cup  of  water. 
If  the  damsel  dream  that  she  takes  the  water  and  drinks  it,  the 
one  by  whom  it  is  presented  will  be  her  future  husband  ;  but  if 
she  refuse  to  take  it,  she  will  not  marry  the  man,  and  there  are 
chances  in  favor  of  her  dying  a  maid." 
24* 


282  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  Did  you  ever  try  the  salt  egg,  aunty  ?"  enquired  Kate,  with 
an  arch  look. 

"  Nonsense,  child  !  Don't  ask  your  aunt  such  a  question," 
said  Mr.  Wilmot,  laughing. 

"  Yes,  dear !"  was  the  good  humored  reply.  "  I've  tried  that 
charm." 

"  And  how  did  it  come  out  ?"  asked  Maggy  and  Jane,  both 
at  once. 

"  All  right,"  returned  Aunt  Edith,  while  a  beautiful  smile 
played  about  her  features.  "  Well,"  she  continued,  "  as  I  was 
saying,  Lizzie  had  tried  the  salt  egg,  but  it  had  not  proved  so 
satisfactory  as  she  had  desired,  and  she  resolved  to  work  out  a 
deeper  charm,  and  to  interrogate  the  future  by  a  more  earnest 
rite.  What  this  should  be,  had  for  many  days  been  a  subject 
of  debate  in  her  mind.  The  most  certain  spell  was  that  of  the 
south  running  spring  or  rivulet.  But,  not  within  half  a  mile 
was  there  such  a  stream  in  the  right  location.  To  make  this 
trial  of  sweethearts  a  sure  one,  the  person  must  go,  after  dark, 
to  a  stream  running  south,  and  just  where  three  estates  meet,  dip 
the  left  sleeve  in  the  water.  She  must  then  sleep  in  a  room 
where  there  is  a  fire,  and  on  going  to  bed,  hang  up  the  garment 
with  the  wet  sleeve  to  dry.  Of  course  she  must  lie  awake  until 
midnight,  at  which  time  the  spirit  of  the  future  husband  will 
enter  the  room,  go  up  to  the  fire,  turn  the  sleeve  as  if  to  dry  the 
other  side,  and  then  go  away  again.  But,  as  I  said,  this  cere- 
mony was  out  of  the  question,  for  Lizzie,  even  if  her  nerves 
would  have  been  strong  enough  for  the  trial,  there  being  no 
southward  running  spring  within  a  convenient  distance.  Other 
plans  were  next  debated,  and  the  final  conclusion  was  to  eat  an 
apple  before  a  looking-glass,  just  as  the  clock  struck  twelve,  in 
the  hope  of  seeing  the  apparition  of  her  spouse  to  be  looking  at 
her,  over  her  shoulder.  At  first  thought  this  may  seem  but  a 
little  matter ;  but  let  any  one  try  it,  and  she  will  find  her  cour- 
age put  to  a  severe  test. 

"  A  dozen  times,  as  the  lonely  evening  passed  away,  and 
Lizzie  hearkened  to  the  troubled  roar  of  the  storm  without — for 
the  rain  had  begun  to  fall — did  her  heart  fail  her.  But  the  in- 
tense desire  she  felt  to  know  something  certain  in  regard  to 
her  lover,  brought  back  her  wavering  resolution.  There  was 
no  one  at  home  but  her  father  and  mother,  and  they  retired  to 
bed,  as  was  their  usual  custom,  about  nine  o'clock.  Three 


LOVE    TESTS    OF   HALLOWEEN.  283 

hours  yet  remained  before  the  all-potent  love  test  could  be  tried, 
and  there  was  full  time  for  Lizzie's  already  weakened  nerves  to 
become  sensitive  to  the  utmost  degree.  In  order  to  make  the 
time  pass  less  wearily,  she  took  up  some  work  and  tried  to  sew. 
But  her  hand  was  so  tremulous  that  she  could  not  hold  the  nee- 
dle, and,  after  a  few  trials,  she  was  forced  to  abandon  the  at- 
tempt. She  next  tried  to  read,  but  with  no  better  success.  Her 
eyes  passed  from  word  to  word  over  the  open  page,  but  there 
was  not  the  slightest  connection  between  the  words  in  the  book 
and  the  ideas  that  were  passing  through  her  mind.  Half  an 
hour  was  spent  in  this  way,  and  then,  startled  by  a  noise  as  of 
some  one  trying  to  open  the  outside  door,  she  looked  up  and  lis- 
tened intensely,  while  her  heart  throbbed  so  heavily  that  she 
could  distinctly  hear  every  pulsation,  and  feel  them  as  strokes 
upon  her  bosom.  As  she  listened,  other  sounds  became  appar- 
ent. There  was  the  noise  as  of  feet  walking  around  the  house ; 
voices  were  heard  in  the  moaning  wind,  and  cries  from  the  dis- 
tant forest.  Now  there  seemed  to  be  a  knocking  at  the  window 
pane,  and  she  half  turned  herself  to  look,  her  heart  shrinking  lest 
some  fearful  apparition  should  meet  her  eyes.  Even  in  the 
room,  the  deep  silence  was  broken  by  strange  sounds — some- 
thing rustled  in  one  corner,  and  rattled  in  another  ;  and  even  the 
fire  blazed  on  the  hearth  with  an  unearthly  murmur ;  while  the 
sparks  flew  suddenly  out,  and  darted  across  the  room,  as  if  in- 
stinct with  some  living  purpose. 

"  Thus  it  was  that  the  hours  crept  slowly  on.  But,  still  firm 
to  her  purpose,  Lizzie,  though  her  heart  was  almost  paralyzed 
with  superstitious  fear,  kept  her  lonely  vigil.  At  length  the 
clock,  which  had  ticked  with  a  louder  and  louder  noise  as  time 
wore  on  towards  midnight,  pointed  to  the  minute  mark  before 
twelve.  Up  to  this  time,  the  storm  without  had  been  steadily 
increasing.  But  now  there  came  a  sudden  lull  in  the  tempest, 
and  the  roar  of  the  wind  sunk  into  a  low,  sobbing  moan,  that 
sounded  strangely  human. 

"  The  hour  had  come.  Upon  the  table  by  which  Lizzie  sat, 
stood  the  candle,  and  near  it  the  apple  which  must  be  eaten  as 
a  part  of  the  spell  that  was  to  raise  the  spirit  of  her  lover.  Strong- 
ly tempted  was  Lizzie,  at  this  crisis,  to  rush  from  the  room,  and 
abandon  the  bold  experiment.  Both  hands  of  the  clock  would 
be  on  the  point  that  marked  the  close  of  Halloween  in  a  few  se- 
conds, and,  if  she  did  not  act  now,  the  secret  she  so  ardently 


284         SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER. 

desired  to  penetrate  would  still  be  hidden  from  her  eyes.  She 
felt  awful  in  that  moment  of  deep  suspense.  Her  heart  ceased 
for  an  instant  to  beat,  and  then  bounded  on  again  in  troubled 
throbbings.  Then,  with  a  kind  of  desperate  energy  she  caught 
up  the  candle  and  apple,  and  turned  to  the  glass  that  hung 
against  the  wall.  As  she  did  so,  the  brief  lull  in  the  tempest 
expired,  and  the  wind,  as  if  it  had  gained  new  power,  rushed 
past  with  a  wilder  sound,  and  shook  the  house  to  its  very  foun- 
dation. 

"  One  glance  into  the  mirror,  as  the  hammer  of  the  clock  be- 
gan to  fall,  sufficed.  A  wild  scream,  thrilling  through  the 
house,  accompanied  by  a  noise,  as  of  some  one  falling  heavily, 
aroused  the  sleeping  parents.  When  they  descended  to  the 
room  below,  they  found  Lizzie  prostrate  on  the  floor,  in  a  state 
of  total  insensibility." 

"  Why  aunt !"  exclaimed  Kate,  in  a  husky  voice. 

"  What  did  she  see  ?"  asked  Maggy,  who  had  been  listening 
with  breathless  attention. 

"  It  was  many  hours  before  the  frightened  girl  came  back  to 
consciousness,"  said  aunt  Edith.  "  I  saw  her  on  the  day  after- 
wards, and  she  looked  as  if  she  had  been  sick  for  a  month.  We 
were  intimate,  and  on  my  asking  her  some  questions,  she  told 
me  what  she  had  done,  and  avowed,  that,  as  she  looked  into  the 
glass,  she  distinctly  saw  the  face  of  a  man  peering  over  her 
shoulder." 

"  But  you  did'nt  believe  her,"  said  Mr.  Wilmot. 

"  Did  she  know  the  person  whom  she  saw  ?"  asked  Maggy. 

"  Yes.  She  told  me  who  it  was,  and  they  were  afterwards 
married." 

"  Nonsense !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Wilmot.  "  I'm  really  surprized 
at  you  sister!  You  will  turn  these  silly  girls'  heads.  You  sure- 
ly don't  believe  that  she  saw  any  face  in  the  glass  besides  her 
own  ?" 

"  In  imagination  she  did,  without  doubt.  The  fact  of  her 
fainting  from  alarm  shows  that." 

"  But  you  say,  aunt  Edith,  that  she  afterwards  married  the 
person  she  saw  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear.  But  that  is  no  very  strange  part  of  the  story. 
Young  ladies  are  not  famous  for  keeping  secrets,  you  know.  I 
told  a  young  friend,  in  confidence  of  course,  what  Lizzie  had 
told  me.  She,  though  bound  to  secrecy,  very  naturally  confided 


THE  APPLE  CHARM. 


LOVE  TEST'S  OF  HALLOWEEN.  285 

the  story  to  her  particular  friend  and  confidante ;  and  so  it 
went,  until  the  young  man  came  to  hear  of  it.  It  so  happened, 
that  both  he  and  Lizzie  were  rather  modest  sort  of  young  peo- 
ple, and  though  mutually  in  love  with  each  other,  shrunk  from 
letting  any  sign  thereof  become  manifest.  At  a  distance,  the 
young  man  worshipped,  scarcely  hoping  that  he  would  ever  be, 
in  the  eyes  of  the  maiden,  more  than  a  friend  or  acquaintance. 
But,  when  he  heard  of  the  love  test,  and  was  told  that  his  face 
had  appeared  to  the  maiden,  he  took  courage.  The  next  time 
he  met  Lizzie  he  drew  to  her  side  as  naturally  as  iron  draws  to 
the  magnet;  and  as  he  looked  into  her  mild,  blue  eyes,  he  saw 
that  they  were  full  of  tenderness.  The  course  of  true  love  ran 
smoothly  enough  after  that.  On  next  Halloween  they  were  made 
one,  in  the  very  room  where,  a  year  before,  the  never-to-be-for- 
gotten love  charm  was  tried. 

On  the  next  morning,  neither  of  the  sisters  were  very  bright. 
Maggy  was  pale ;  Jane  did  not  make  her  appearance  at  the 
breakfast  table,  and  Kate  looked  so  thoughtful,  as  she  sipped  her 
coffee  with  a  spoon  and  only  pretended  to  eat,  that  her  mother 
enquired  seriously  as  to  the  cause. 

Kate  blushed  and  seemed  a  little  confused,  but  said  nothing 
was  the  matter. 

"  I  hope  you  hav'nt  been  so  silly  as  to  try  sweethearts,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Wilmot. 

Instantly  the  tell-tale  blood  mounted  to  the  brow  of  Kate. 
Maggy,  likewise,  found  her  color,  and  rather  more  of  it  than  her 
cheeks  were  wont  to  bear. 

"  Why,  girls!"  exclaimed  the  father,  who  had  spoken  more 
in  jest  than  in  earnest,  "  can  it  be  possible — " 

But,  before  he  could  finish  the  sentence,  both  Kate  and  Mag- 
gy had  risen  from  the  table — their  faces  like  scarlet — and  were 
hastily  leaving  the  room. 

"Really  !"  said  Mr.  Wilmot,  "  I  thought  better  of  them  girls! 
WThat  nonsense  !  This  is  all  your  fault,  sister.  I  shouldn't  at 
all  wonder  if  you  were  up  with  them,  trying  your  sweetheart." 

Aunt  Edith  smiled,  in  her  quiet,  self-possessed  way,  as  she 
replied — 

. "  I  hardly  think,  brother,  you  will  find  it  any  thing  more  se- 
rious than  eating  a  salt  egg  on  going  to  bed,  or  some  tri- 
fling affair  like  that ;  for  which  I  can  readily  excuse  a  young 
maiden." 


286  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

"  To  think  they  should  be  so  weak  as  to  believe  in  nonsense 
of  this  kind,"  said  the  father.  "  I  hoped  that  my  daughters 
had  better  sense." 

"  Don't  take  the  matter  so  seriously,  brother,"  replied  aunt 
Edith  to  this.  "  It  has  only  been  a  little  frolic." 

"  It  has  been  rather  a  serious  one,  I  should  think,  to  judge 
from  the  effects  produced.  Jane,  I  presume,  is  too  much  in- 
disposed to  get  up,  and  I  am  sure  both  Maggy  and  Kate  look 
as  if  they  had  been  sick  for  a  week." 

"  They'll  all  come  out  bright  enough  before  noon.  Don't 
fear  for  that." 

The  girls  however,  were  not  themselves  again  during  the 
whole  day.  Jane's  absence  from  the  breakfast  table  was  in 
consequence  of  a  nervous  headache,  from  which  she  suffered 
nearly  all  day.  And  Kate  and  Maggy  continued  to  look  thought- 
ful, and  to  keep  as  much  away  from  the  rest  of  the  family 
as  possible. 

It  came  out,  before  night,  that  each  of  the  girls,  on  retiring 
at  twelve  o'clock,  had  eaten  a  "  salt  egg."  The  consequence 
to  Jane  was  a  sick  headache,  and  the  others  did  not  feel  much 
better.  As  to  their  dreams,  th6y  wisely  kept  their  own  coun- 
sel. That  these  had  some  effect  upon  their  spirits,  was,  no 
doubt,  correctly  inferred. 

"  That  a  young  girl,  after  sitting  up  until  twelve  o'clock  at 
night,  thinking  of  a  certain  nice  young  man,  and  then  eating 
half  a  cupfull  of  salt,  should  dream  that  she  was  thirsty,  and 
that  this  certain  young  man  came  and  offered  her  water  to  drink 
is  not  a  very  wonderful  occurrence ;  and  might  be  accounted 
for  on  very  very  natural  principles." 

"  Of  course,"  replied  aunt  Edith,  to  whom  the  remark  was 
made,  as  we  sat,  all  but  the  girls  conversing  before  the  parlor 
fire  on  the  evening  of  that  day.  "  And  yet,  I  have  known  of 
cases  where  the  dreams  that  came,  were  singularly  prophetic. 
As  for  instance : — a  young  friend  of  mine,  when  I  was  a  girl, 
tried,  though  under  engagement  of  marriage,  this  experiment. 
She  dreamed  that  her  lover  came  and  offered  her  water,  and 
that  she  declined  taking  it,  which  is  considered  an  unfavorable 
omen.  In  a  month  afterwards,  although  the  time  for  the  wed- 
ding was  fixed,  the  young  man  deserted  for  another." 

"  All  that  may  have  occurred,"  said  Mr.  Wilmot,  "  without 
there  being  any  connection  between  the  dream  and  the  after  event." 


LOVE  TESTS  OF  HALLOWEEN.  287 

"  Oh,  certainly.  Yet,  you  must  own  that  the  coincidence  was 
a  little  singular,"  returned  aunt  Edith. 

"  There  are  hundreds  of  coincidences,  occurring  daily,  that 
are  far  more  remarkable." 

"  Very  true.  But  will  you  say,  positively,  that  indications  of 
things  about  to  occur  are  never  given  ?  That  no  shadow  of  a 
coming  event,  is  ever  projected  upon  our  pathway,  as  we  move 
through  life  ?" 

"  As  I  do  not  know,  positively,  any  thing  on  the  subject,  I 
will  assert  nothing.  But,  as  a  general  principle,  we  are  aware 
that  Providence  wisely  withholds  from  us  a  knowlege  of  the 
future,  in  order  that  we  may  remain  in  perfect  freedom.  If  the 
knowledge  of  future  events  was  given,  our  freedom  would  be 
destroyed,  for  the  certainty  of  approaching  calamity,  or  favora- 
ble fortune,  would  destroy  our  ability  to  act  efficiently  in  the 
present.  And  as,  for  so  good  a  reason,  our  Creator  draws  a 
veil  over  the  future,  I  think  it  wrong  for  us  to  use  any  means  for 
the  removal  of  that  veil." 

"  To  any  one,"  replied  aunt  Edith,  "  whose  mind  is  as  clear 
on  this  subject  as  yours,  all  seeking  after  future  knowledge  would 
be  wrong.  But,  all  are  not  so  enlightened.  All  have  not  the 
intelligence  nor  ability  to  think  wisely  on  Providence,  and  its 
operations  with  men.  To  such,  in  their  weakness,  the  kind 
Providence  that  withholds,  as  a  general  good,  may  grant  partic- 
ular glimpses  into  the  future,  as  the  result  of  certain  forms  which 
may  determine  spiritual  influences  ;  as  was  the  case  in  ancient 
times,  when  oracles  gave  their  mysterious  answers." 

"  I'm  afraid,  sister,  said  Mr.  Wilmot,  "  that  you  have  a  vein 
of  superstition  in  your  character." 

"  No,"  returned  aunt  Edith.  "  I  believe  I  am  as  free  from 
superstition  as  one  need  wish  to  be.  But  I  look  upon  the  opera- 
tions of  Providence  with  man  as  designed  for  his  spiritual  good, 
and  as  coming  down  to  meet  him  even  in  his  lowest  and  most 
ignorant  state,  in  order  to  elevate  him.  There  may  be  a  con- 
dition of  the  human  mind  that  needs,  for  its  aid,  some  sign  from 
the  world  of  spirits,  and  wherever  that  state  exists,  such  signs 
will  be  given.  In  the  barbarous  times  of  any  nation,  we  find  a 
belief  in  supernatural  agencies,  in  signs,  tokens  and  oracles, 
a  prominent  characteristic.  This  is  not  so  much  an  accidental 
circumstance,  as  a  providential  arrangement,  by  which  to  keep 
alive  in  the  mind  the  idea  of  a  spiritual  world.  The  same  is 


288  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

true  among  the  unenlightened  classes  at  the  present  day  ;  and 
the  reason  is  of  a  similar  character.  To  people  who  know  no 
better  than  to  seek,  by  certain  forms,  to  penetrate  the  future, 
true  answers  may  be  permitted,  sometimes,  to  their  enquiries, 
and  this  for  a  higher  good  than  the  one  they  are  seeking. 

At  this  point  in  the  conversation,  the  young  ladies  came  into 
the  room  and  the  subject  was  changed.  During  the  evening, 
allusion  was  again  made  to  the  topic  upon  which  so  much  had 
already  been  said,  when,  in  an  answer  to  some  question  asked 
of  aunt  Edith,  she  related  the  following — 

"  Before  I  was  married,"  said  she,  "  there  was  a  certain 
young  man  who  paid  me  many  attentions,  but  whom,  from  some 
cause  or  other,  I  did  not  particularly  fancy.  He  was  an  excel- 
lent young  man,  of  a  good  family,  and  as  sober  and  industrious 
as  any  in  the  neighborhood.  Still,  for  all  this,  I  felt  more  like 
repulsing  than  giving  him  encouragement.  He  saw  that  I 
avoided  him  when  I  could  do  so  without  appearing  rude,  and 
this  made  him  more  distant,  yet  I  could  see  that  his  mind  was 
on  me.  I  would  often  meet  his  eyes  when  we  were  in  company, 
and  he  would  come  to  my  side  whenever  he  could  do  so  without 
appearing  to  be  intrusive.  His  many  excellent  qualities,  and 
the  manliness  of  character  for  which  he  was  distinguished,  pre- 
vented me  from  treating  him  otherwise  than  respectfully.  As  a 
friend  I  liked  him,  but  when  he  approached,  as  was  evidently 
the  case,  in  the  character  of  a  lover,  I  could  not  be  otherwise 
than  cold  and  reserved.  There  were  two  or  three  other  young 
men,  who  appeared  fond  of  my  company,  any  one  of  whom  1 
would  have  accepted,  had  he  offered  himself,  in  preference  to 
this  one." 

"  Such  was  the  state  of  my  love  affairs  when  Halloween  came 
round.  A  cousin — a  young  girl  about  my  own  age — was  spend- 
ing a  few  weeks  in  our  family,  and  she  and  I  talked  over  the 
matter  of  trying  sweethearts.  After  looking  at  the  subject  in  its 
various  lights  and  shades,  we  finally  determined  to  summon  up 
the  requisite  courage,  and  burn  a  "  love  candle."  So,  after  all  the 
family  were  in  bed,  which  was  not  until  after  eleven  o'clock,  we 
began  to  make  preparations  for  this  ceremony.  Burning  the 
"  love  candle"  is  done  in  this  way.  A  table  is  set  with  bread, 
cakes  and  fruit,  or  any  other  articles  of  food  that  may  be  select- 
ed. Plates  for  as  many  guests  as  are  expected  are  also  put 
upon  the  table,  but  no  knives  nor  forks,  lest  the  guests  should, 


LOVE    TESTS    OF    HALLC  WEEN.  289 

by  any  accident,  harm  themselves.  A  little  before  midnight,  a 
candle,  in  which  a  row  of  nine  new  pins  have  been  placed,  just 
below  the  wick,  is  lighted  and  set  upon  the  table.  The  distance 
between  the  row  of  pins  and  the  burning  end  of  the  candle  must 
not  be  greater  than  will  melt  away  by  the  time  the  hour  of 
twelve  strikes.  When  the  candle  burns  down  to  the  pins  they 
drop,  one  after  the  other,  and  just  as  the  last  one  falls,  the  appa- 
ritions of  the  future  husbands  of  those  who  try  the  charm  will 
enter,  it  is  said,  sit  down  to  the  table  and  eat,  and  then  rise  up 
and  go  away. 

"  Well,  Lydia  and  I  determined  that  we  would  try  this  love 
charm  ;  so  we  arranged  our  table,  placed  upon  it  the  candle  in 
which  were  stuck  the  row  of  nine  new  pins,  and  sat  down  to 
wait  the  arrival  of  the  hour  that  was  to  open  for  us  a  page  of 
the  future.  I  shall  never  forget  the  death-like  stillness  that 
reigned  for  a  time  through  the  room,  nor  how  I  started  when  the 
old  house  dog  suddenly  raised,  almost  under  the  window,  a  long, 
low,  melancholy  howl.  My  heart  seemed  to  beat  all  over  my 
body,  and  I  could  feel  the  hair  rising  on  my  head.  After  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  had  elapsed,  we  lit  the  candle,  and  returned 
to  our  seats  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room  to  that  in  which 
the  table  was  standing,  almost  crouching  down  in  our  chairs. 
As  we  did  so,  one  of  the  shutters,  which  was  merely  drawn  to 
without  being  fastened,  flew  open  suddenly,  and  was  slammed 
back  against  the  side  of  the  house,  at  the  same  time  the  wind 
began  rushing  and  moaning  through  the  trees.  I  felt  awful. 
Spirits  seemed  all  around  me,  and  I  looked,  every  moment,  for 
some  fearful  apparition  to  blast  our  sight  with  its  presence. 

"  Steadily  the  hand  passed  from  point  to  point,  and  from  fig- 
ure to  figure,  on  the  dial  of  the  clock,  my  feelings  becoming 
more  and  more  excited  every  moment.  At  last  came  the  warn- 
ing that  is  given  just  before  the  striking  of  the  hour,  and  the 
minute  hand  had  but  a  point  or  two  to  pass  before  it  was  on  the  sign 
of  twelve.  My  very  breath  was  suspended.  A  few  moments 
more,  and  then  the  hammer  of  the  clock  fell,  and  each  stroke 
appeared  as  if  made  upon  my  heart.  Suddenly  there  came  a 
rush  of  wind  past  the  house,  and  strange,  wild,  mournful  tones 
it  made  ;  then  the  door  swung  open,  and  in  came  the  appari- 
tion of  a  man,  I  saw,  in  an  instant,  that  it  was  the  one  of  whom 
I  have  spoken.  His  face  had  a  fixed,  dreamy,  and,  it  seemed 
to  me,  troubled  expression.  He  went  up  slowly  to  the  table, 
25 


290  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

and  sitting  down  at  the  plate,  took  some  fruit.  For  the  space 
of  nearly  a  minute  it  seemed  to  me,  he  remained  there,  motion- 
less, but  did  not  eat.  Then  rising,  he  turned  away,  and  left  the 
room.  During  the  brief  period  he  remained,  he  manifested  not 
the  slightest  consciousness  of  our  presence.  You  may  be  sure 
we  did  not  remain  long  after  he  had  retired,  but  went  trembling 
up  stairs,  half  frightened  out  of  our  wits,  and  buried  ourselves 
beneath  the  clothes,  without  stopping  to  remove  our  garments, 
where  we  lay  and  shivered  as  if  both  of  us  had  ague  fits. 

"  Well,  sure  enough,"  continued  aunt  Edith,  "  it  turned  out 
'as  the  sign  had  indicated.  I  was  married  to  the  young  man, 
and  my  cousin  died  an  old  maid.  It  was  all  folly,  I  thought, 
to  struggle  against  my  fate,  and  so,  from  that  memorable  Hal- 
low-Eve, I  received  my  lover's  attentions  with  favor." 

"And  were  you  so  weak  as  to  believe  that  any  one  did  really 
come  in,"  said  Mr.  Wilmot. 

"  t  was,"  returned  aunt  Edith. 

"  It  was  all  your  imagination,"  said  the  brother,  positively. 

"  No,  I  believe  not ;  I  don't  think  it  was  possible  for  both  of 
our  eyes  to  be  deceived." 

"  Then  your  cousin  saw  it  too  ?" 

"  So  she  would  have  averred,  had  you  asked  her  the  day  be- 
fore her  death." 

Mr.  Wilmot  shook  his  head,  while  the  girls  looked  credulous, 
and  I  noticed  that  Kate  glanced  slightly  around,  every  now  and 
then  half  fearfully. 

"  One  day,"  resumed  aunt  Edith,  "  about  two  years  after  our 
marriage,  something  favoring  an  allusion  to  the  subject,  I  said 
to  my  husband  :  c  There  is  one  thing,  that  I  never  could  bring 
myself  to  mention,  and  I  hardly  like  to  do  it  now.'  f  What  is 
that?'  he  asked.  I  then  related  to  him  minutely,  all  that  I  have 
told  you  this  evening.  He  looked  grave,  and  was  thoughtful 
for  some  time.  Then  he  said — '  And  there  is  also  one  thing, 
about  which  I  have  never  felt  free  to  speak  to  you.  I  remember 
that  night  well,  and  shall  have  cause  to  remember  it  as  long  as 
I  live.'  '  Were  you  conscious  of  any  thing  ?'  I  asked  eagerly. 
'  Yes,  of  a  great  deal,'  he  replied  :  '  I  saw,  in  fact,  all  that 
passed.'  '  In  a  dream  ?'  said  I.  *  No,  while  awake — as  fully 
awake  as  at  this  time.  To  throw  off  all  disguise,  and  speak 
without  mystery,  I  happened,  on  that  night,  to  be  going  home 
at  a  late  hour,  and  in  passing  your  house,  I  saw  a  light  stream- 


BURNING  THE  LOVE  CANDLE. 


LOVE    TESTS    OF    HALLOWEEN.  291 

ing  through  a  small  opening  in  the  shutter.  It  instantly  occurred 
to  me  that  you  might  be  up,  and  engaged  in  some  love  experi- 
ments, as  it  was  Hallow-Eve,  so,  stealing  up  softly,  and  peep- 
ing in,  I  saw  that  I  was  not  in  error.  No  very  long  time  was 
spent  in  determining  what  to  do.  My  decision  I  marked  by 
suddenly  jerking  the  shutter  back  and  slamming  it  loudly  against 
the  house.  Concealed  by  the  darkness,  I  perceived  the  effect 
of  this.  It  was  what  I  had  anticipated.  You  did  not  in  the 
least  suspect  the  truth.  As  plainly  as  if  1  had  been  in  the  room 
I  could  now  see  all  that  was  passing  ;  and,  as  I  understood  the 
particular  charm  you  were  trying,  I  knew  precisely  what  part  I 
was  to  act  in  the  ceremony.  So,  as  I  had  all  along  believed 
myself  to  be  the  favored  one,  although  you,  somehow  or  other, 
appeared  to  think  differently,  I  took  the  liberty  of  walking  in 
just  as  the  clock  struck  twelve.' " 

At  this  part  of  aunt  Edith's  story,  she  was  interrupted  by  a 
burst  of  laughter  from  all  in  the  room. 

"  And  so  that  was  the  explanation  of  the  great  mystery,"  said 
Mr.  Wilmot.  "  The  troubled  spirit  was  a  real  flesh  and  blood 
visiter,  after  all." 

"  Yes.  And  in  my  heart  I  forgave  him  for  the  trick  he  played 
off  upon  me  so  adroitly." 

"  Why,  aunt  Edith  !"  exclaimed  Maggy,  taking  a  long  breath, 
"  How  you  frightened  me  !  I  really  thought  it  was  a  spirit  that 
had  entered." 

"  No,  child.  Spirits,  I  believe,  are  not  apt  to  walk  about  and 
visit  love-sick  maidens,  even  on  Halloween,  for  all  that  may  be 
said  to  the  contrary.  The  instance  given  you,  is  the  best  au- 
thenticated I  have  known." 

This  relation  furnished  abundant  food  for  merriment,  as  well 
as  for  some  sage  reflections,  during  the  evening,  and  even  Mag- 
gy, Jane  and  Kate  saw  reason  to  join  with  the  rest  in  laughing 
at  the  folly  of  love  tests  at  Halloween. 


LIVING    IT    DOWN. 


"I'll  live  it  down,  sir!" 

Mr.  Coleman  drew  himself  up  with  a  dignified  air. 

"  That  you  will  be  able,  no  doubt,  to  do.  All  your  friends 
know  it  to  be  a  base  slander.  Still,  Mr.  Coleman,  if  you  would 
call  for  an  investigation,  and  give  unequivocal  proofs  of  your  in- 
tegrity, the  whole  matter  could  be  settled  at  once,  and  the  busy 
tongue  of  detraction  silenced. 

"  No,  sir !  I  will  not  stoop  to  humiliating  explanations.  I 
am  innocent ;  that  is  sufficient  for  my  own  peace  of  mind,  and 
before  I  die  my  innocence  will  be  seen.  I  can  wait  patiently. 
Sooner  or  later  the  truth  will  appear.  Words  cannot  hurt  me." 

"  I  think  you  are  wrong,  Mr.  Coleman.  I  think  it  is  due  to 
the  cause  of  truth  for  you  to  come  forward  and  justify  yourself 
in  this  matter.  You  can  do  it  with  the  greatest  ease  in  the 
world." 

"  I  know  it.  But  it  is  not  in  me  to  reply  to  false  accusations. 
I  feel  that  it  would  be  a  degradation.  To  me  it  is  of  conse- 
quence what  I  am ;  not  what  people  happen  to  think  that  I  am. 
I  am  willing  to  wait,  if  it  be  twenty  years.  All  will  be  seen  in 
its  true  light  in  the  end.  Better  suffer  for  well  doing  than  evil 
doing.  As  for  an  investigation,  let  those  call  for  it  who  question 
my  integrity.  I  shall  certainly  not  do  so." 

"  Think  how  your  usefulness  may  be  abridged,"  said  the 
friend. 

"  Let  those  who  falsely  accuse  me,  answer  for  that,"  replied 
Mr.  Coleman,  firmly.  "  All  I  have  to  do  is  to  live  the  slander 
down,  and  I  will  take  care  that  it  is  done." 

Other  friends  urged  him  to  take  the  proper  steps,  which  were 
in  his  power,  to  clear  his  character,  but  Mr.  Coleman,  who  was 

292 


LIVING    IT    DOWN.  293 

a  proud  man,  as  well  as  a  man  of  stern  integrity  refused  to 
do  so. 

"  I  will  live  it  dowrn!"  was  his  reply.  "  That  is  the  way  to 
neutralize  detraction.  All  the  explanations  I  can  make  will  not 
alter  the  opinions  of  those  who  wish  to  think  evil  of  me.  Time 
and  a  blameless  life,  only,  can  change  the  current  of  a  false  esti- 
mation in  which  my  name  is  held.'" 

And  so,  Mr.  Coleman  proceeded  to  live  down,  as  he  called  it, 
the  slander  that  had  been  put  in  circulation  against  him. 

The  nature  of  the  charge  was  this.  He  had  been  constituted 
executor  of  a  deceased  brother's  estate,  and  guardian  of  his 
only  child,  a  daughter  ten  years  of  age.  The  brother  was  en- 
gaged in  doing  a  large  business,  and  was  the  owner  of  consid- 
erable real  estate.  In  the  estimation  of  the  public  he  was  a 
wealthy  man,  and  his  daughter  was  looked  upon  as  an  heiress. 

But,  in  the  settlement  of  the  estate,  Mr.  Coleman  found  that 
his  brother  had  been  doing  business  on  a  large  scale,  without 
possessing  the  amount  of  capital  he  was  generally  supposed  to 
possess.  All  his  real  estate  was  heavily  mortgaged,  and  his 
current  business  debts  and  bank  accommodations  were  very 
large  The  terms  of  the  executorship  gave  him  plenary  powers 
in  the  settlement  of  the  estate,  and  these  he  made  use  of  to  their 
full  extent,  as  if  the  estate  and  business  were  his  own.  With 
the  means  which  the  estate  afforded,  Mr.  Coleman  found  that  it 
would  be  impossible  to  meet  at  maturity  all  its  liabilities,  and 
that  bankruptcy  must  inevitably  ensue.  In  order  to  prevent  this, 
he  used  his  own  means,  as  far  as  he  could  safely  do  it,  in  meet- 
ing the  almost  daily  maturing  obligations  of  his  brother's  estate, 
at  the  same  time  that  he  with  all  diligence  made  collections  and 
disposed  of  property  for  the  same  purpose.  In  all  this,  Mr. 
Coleman  sought  to  do  his  duty  to  the  orphan  who  had  been  com- 
mitted to  his  charge.  The  final  result  was  an  entire  settlement 
of  the  estate  in  the  course  of  two  years,  leaving  a  surplus  of 
fifteen  thousand  dollars,  which  was  immediately  invested  safely 
and  profitably.  At  the  time  the  brother  died,  out  of  ten  persons 
who  had  been  asked  what  they  considered  him  worth,  nine  would 
have  replied,  "  A  hundred  thousand  dollars." 

The  result  greatly  disappointed  Mr.  Coleman.     He  had  hoped 

to  realize  at  least  fort)  thousand  dollars  out  of  the  estate  for  his 

niece.     Of  the  result  he  said  nothing.     It  was  not  a  matter  with 

which  the  public  had  any  thing  to  do,   and  he  was  not  the 

25* 


294  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

man  to  intrude  private  concerns  within  limits  where  they  did  not 
legitimately  belong. 

As  Anna  Coleman  emerged  from  girlhood  into  womanhood, 
and  entered  society,  she  was  looked  upon  by  almost  every  one 
as  an  heiress  of  no  small  pretensions  to  wealth.  The  amount 
of  this  was  variously  estimated,  none  set  it  down  lower  than  sixty 
or  seventy  thousand  dollars.  Of  course  she  had  plenty  of  suit- 
ors. The  favored  one  was  a  Mr.  Charles  Grossman,  who  had 
quite  as  strong  a  love  for  the  hundred  thousand  dollars  he  be- 
lieved her  to  possess  as  he  had  for  the  maiden  herself.  His  dis- 
appointment on  finding,  after  the  marriage  had  taken  place,  that 
his  wife's  fortune  was  only  fifteen  thousand  dollars,  may  be  ima- 
gined. Immediately  he  put  in  circulation  a  report  that  Mr. 
Coleman  had  wronged  his  niece  in  the  settlement  of  her  father's 
estate,  a  report  that  very  many  accredited  when  they  heard  how 
small  a  sum  had  been  saved  from  his  apparently  large  posses- 
sions. 

It  was  the  effect  of  this  serious  allegation  that  Mr.  Coleman, 
in  the  pride  of  his  integrity,  was  going  to  live  down,  instead  of 
at  once  proving  his  innocence  by  laying  open  to  a  carefully  cho- 
sen committee  of  friends,  as  well  as  of  those  who  doubted  his 
integrity,  the  exact  condition  of  his  brother's  property  when  he 
died,  which  could  easily  have  been  done  to  the  entire  satisfac- 
tion of  all — thus  at  once  silencing  detraction  and  leaving  his 
social  influence  unimpaired.  But  this  did  not  harmonize  with 
Mr.  Coleman's  views  and  feelings.  He  preferred,  rather,  to 
wrap  himself  up  in  conscious  integrity  and  live  the  base  slander 
down.  Proudly,  and  erect,  he  walked  among  his  fellow  men,  un- 
disturbed at  the  coldness  of  one,  or  the  sidelong,  meaning  glance 
of  another. 

A  few  months  after  the  report  unfavorable  to  the  integrity  of 
Mr.  Coleman  had  obtained  a  free  circulation,  a  gentleman  named 
Bassford  called  upon  an  attorney,  between  whom  and  himself 
the  following  conversation  took  place. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  this  report  about  Coleman  ?"  asked 
Bassford. 

"  It  sounds  rather  strangely.     Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Very  strangely.     But  do  you,  in  the  least,  credit  it  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  there  is  something  wrong.  It  is  said  that  all  he 
accounted  for  to  the  daughter,  out  of  his  brother's  large  estate, 
was  fifteen  thousand  dollars." 


LIVING   IT    DOWN.  295 

"  Yes.  Fifteen  thousand.  I  had  it  from  Grossman,  who  mar- 
ried Anna  Coleman." 

"  It  may  be,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  that  he  has  settled  the  estate 
honestly,  and  that  fifteen  thousand  dollars  is  all  that  was  real- 
ized. But  I  have  my  doubts." 

"  Mr.  Coleman  has  always  stood  high  as  a  man  of  integrity." 

**  Yes.     But  the  highest  are  sometimes  liable  to  fall." 

"  Then  you  really  have  doubts  of  his  integrity  ?" 

"  This  circumstance  is  enough  to  make  any  man  doubt." 

"  That  is  certainly  true.  You  are  aware  that  I  have  named 
him  as  my  executor  ?" 

"I  am." 

"  To  talk  about  that  is  my  business  with  you  this  morning. 
I  do  not  feel  easy  in  mind,  in  prospect  of  leaving  my  property 
and  the  interests  of  my  wife  and  children  in  his  hands,  in  the 
event  of  my  death." 

"  Nor  should  I.  You  ought,  by  all  means,  to  name  another 
executor." 

"  So  it  strikes  me.     I  have  been  thinking  of  Anderson." 

"  You  couldn't  find  a  better  man  in  my  opinion.  I  esteem  him 
very  highly." 

«  So  do  I." 

"  I  would  certainly  make  the  change.  It  is  enough  that  a  sus- 
picion rests  against  the  integrity  of  Coleman." 

"  That  is  what  I  think.  And  as  your  opinion  of  Anderson  so 
fully  coincides  with  my  own,  I  will  decide  the  matter  at  once, 
and  get  you  to  make  the  required  alteration  in  my  will,  which  is 
still  in  your  possession." 

"  Very  well,  Mr.  Bassford.  I  will  have  the  change  made  as 
you  desire.  Your  course  is,  without  doubt,  a  prudent  one." 

So  the  name  of  Mr.  Anderson  was  substituted  for  that  of  Mr. 
Coleman,  as  executor  to  the  last  will  and  testament  of  Mr.  Bass- 
ford. 

Five  years  elapsed,  during  which  the  wrongly  judged  mer- 
chant persevered  in  his  course  of  living  down  the  false  charge 
that  had  been  made  against  him.  The  manly  uprightness  of 
his  character,  impressing  itself  constantly  upon  those  who  were 
brought  into  close  contact  with  him,  gradually  restored  to  the 
minds  of  many,  who  had  doubted  his  integrity,  their  former  good 
opinion.  Some,  who  could  approach  him  nearer  than  others, 
inquired  as  to  the  facts  of  the  case,  and  received  the  information 


296  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

they  sought.  Time,  too,  developed  traits  of  character  in  Gross- 
man, who  had  married  his  neice,  that  destroyed  the  weight  of 
his  testimony  in  the  case. 

"  I  told  you  I  would  live  it  down,"  said  Mr.  Coleman  to  a 
friend,  as  an  entire  change  in  public  opinion  became  clearly  ap- 
parent. "  And  I  have  lived  it  down." 

"  At  what  cost  you  may  never  know,"  returned  the  friend 

gravely. 

"  My  character  has  suffered  severely,  I  am  aware." 

"  I  did  not  mean  that,''  said  the  friend.  "  How  much  injury 
others  may  have  sustained  through  your  inability  to  serve  them 
during  the  time  public  opinion  was  against  you,  will  never,  per- 
haps, be  known." 

"  With  that  I  have  nothing  to  do,"  replied  Mr.  Coleman. 

The  friend  did  not  say  what  was 'in  his  mind.  But  he  thought 
that  if  Coleman  had  used  the  proper  means  to  correct  public 
opinion,  as  he  ought  to  have  done,  instead  of  wrapping  himself 
up  in  his  dignity  and  proudly  "  living  down"  the  charge  of 
dishonest  appropriation  that  had  been  made  against  him,  he 
would  have  acted  a  wiser  part,  and  retained  that  influence  for 
good  in  the  community  to  which  the  community  was  justly  en- 
titled. 

A  few  days  subsequently,  Mr.  Coleman,  just  as  he  was  about 
rising  from  the  table,  after  dining,  was  informed  that  a  lady  had 
called  and  desired  to  see  him.  She  was  in  the  parlor.  On  en- 
tering the  room  the  merchant  found  a  lady  in  deep  mourning. 
She  drew  aside  her  veil,  and  exhibited  the  face  of  a  stranger, 
past  the  prime  of  life. 

"  I  hope  to  be  pardoned,"  said  she,  "  for  intruding  upon  you ; 
but  the  nature  of  my  business  with  you  is  such,  that  even  in 
your  eyes  I  am  sure  it  will  excuse  the  liberty  I  am  taking.  My 
name  is  Mrs.  Bassford." 

"  Widow  of  the  late  Herman  Bassford  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Cole- 
man, speaking  quickly,  and  evincing  a  sudden  interest. 

"  Yes  sir,"  replied  the  woman,  in  a  low  voice,  while  her  eyes 
dropped  to  the  floor. 

"  I  knew  your  husband  well,  and  highly  esteemed  him,"  said 
Mr.  Coleman.  "  He  was  one  of  our  best  men.  If  there  is  any 
thing  in  which  I  can  serve  you,  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  do  so. 
Pray  feel  perfectly  free  to  command  my  services." 

"  For  your  kindness  I  feel  truly  grateful,"  returned  the  widow. 


LIVING    IT    DOWN.  297 

"  I  need  a  clear  and  strong  minded  adviser,  and  have  come  to 
you  as  such.  You  are  aware,  I  presume,  that  Mr.  Anderson 
was  named  in  my  husband's  will  as  executor  to  his  estate.  I 
had  understood  from  him.  that  you  were  to  be  his  executor.  Why 
he  changed  his  mind  I  cannot  tell.  But  that  avails  nothing  now. 
From  Mr.  Anderson  I  have  never  been  able  to  get  money,  ex- 
cept in  small  sums.  The  amount  thus  far  received,  has  been 
really  inadequate  to  the  support  of  my  family  since  my  hus- 
band's death.  Yesterday  I  asked  him  for  two  hundred  dollars, 
and  he  told  me  that  I  could  not  have  it.  I  asked  when  he  could 
give  me  money,  and  received  an  evasive  answer.  I  am  afraid 
something  is  wrong.  Will  you  advise  me  what  to  do  ?" 

"  Is  it  possible  that  Mr.  Anderson  treats  you  in  this  way  ?" 
said  Mr.  Coleman  in  surprise.  "  It  is  very  wrong.  How  much 
have  you  received  from  him  since  the  death  of  Mr.  Bassford  ?" 

"  A  little  over  two  thousand  dollars." 

"  Is  that  all  ?" 

"  Yes  sir,  every  dollar." 

"  I  think  Mr.  Elliotson  was  your  husband's  legal  adviser  ?" 

"  I  believe  he  was." 

"  Have  you  seen  him  ?" 

"  No  sir.  I  have  not  spoken  a  word  on  the  subject  before,  to 
any  one.  My  business  in  calling  upon  you,  is  to  ask  your  ad- 
vice as  to  what  is  best  to  be  done.  The  only  apology  I  have  to 
offer  for  troubling  you,  is  the  confidence  I  have  in  your  integrity. 
I  need  a  discreet,  intelligent  and  energetic  adviser,  and  such  I 
believe  you  will  be  if  you  consent  to  aid  me." 

"  That  I  will  most  cheerfully  do,  as  well  for  the  sake  of  your 
husband  as  for  the  sake  of  what  is  just.  Perhaps  it  would  be 
best  for  me  to  consult  Mr.  Elliotson  at  the  outset." 

"  Perhaps  it  would.  But  I  will  leave  all  that  to  your  better 
judgment." 

On  that  very  day  Mr.  Coleman  waited^pon  the  lawyer,  and 
after  stating  the  case  of  Mrs.  Bassford,  desired  to  know  what 
were  the  steps  necessary  to  take  in  order  to  make  the  executor 
pay  over  the  money  he  had  received,  more  freely,  into  the  hands 
of  the  widow.  Mr.  Elliotson,  who  had  written  out  the  will,  and 
understood,  precisely,  the  duties  and  responsibilities  of  the  exe- 
cutor, expressed  great  surprise  at  what  he  heard,  and  said,  that 
by  the  requirements  of  the  will,  it  was  the  duty  of  Mr.  Anderson 
to  close  up  the  business  of  the  testator  immediately,  collect  in 


298  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

all  the  debts,  and  as  fast  as  it  could  safely  be  done,  invest  what 
was  received  in  good  real  estate  in  the  name  of  the  widow,  and 
hand  her  over  the  title  deeds. 

"  Nothing  of  this  kind  has  been  done,"  said  Mr.  Coleman. 

"  And  yet  the  testator  has  been  dead  more  than  sixteen 
months.  There  is  something  wrong  there,  depend  upon  it." 

"  I'm  afraid  there  is.  But,  whether  there  is  or  not,  imme- 
diate steps  must  be  taken  to  protect  the  widow  in  her  rights,  and 
I  wish  you,  therefore,  to  commence  the  required  proceedings 
against  the  executor." 

11 1  will  do  so.  First,  however,  I  will  wrrite  Mr.  Anderson  a 
note,  setting  forth  the  complaint  of  the  widow,  and  desiring  him 
to  call  upon  me." 

A  day  or  two  afterward  Mr.  Coleman  learned  from  the  law- 
yer that  the  executor  refused  to  give  any  satisfaction,  or  to  an- 
swer any  questions,  and  that  he  had  been  cited  to  appear  before 
the  Judges  of  the  Orphan's  Court  to  show  cause  why  he  had 
not  fulfilled  the  provisions  of  the  instrument  under  which  he  was 
acting. 

"  I  regret  very  much,"  remarked  the  lawyer,  "  that  Mr.  Bass- 
ford  selected  this  man  as  the  executor  of  his  will.  You,  sir, 
were  his  first  choice,  and  your  name  remained  in  the  instrument 
for  some  years.  But,  circumstances  occurred  that  led  him  to 
substitute  the  name  of  Mr.  Anderson." 

"  Ah  ?  I  was  not  aware  of  this.  That  base  slander  against 
my  character,  set  on  foot  by  the  husband  of  my  niece,  was, 
doubtless,  the  cause  of  this  change  of  views  on  the  part  of  Mr. 
Bassford." 

"  Yes  sir.     I  happen  to  know  that  that  was  the  reason." 

"  Thank  God !  I  have  lived  that  slander  down.  I  said  I 
would  do  so,  and  I  have."  Mr.  Coleman  spoke  proudly. 

"  But  it  took  too  much  time,  unfortunately,  Mr.  Coleman. 
While  you  were  living  it  down,  great  wrong  has  been  done. 
Your  character  has  come  out  clear,  but  what  can  compensate 
for  the  loss  of  an  honest  man's  influence  in  society  even  for  the 
space  of  a  few  years  ?" 

"  What  else  could  I  have  done  ?  I  gave  no  cause  for  the 
base  detraction.  Thoste  who  originated  it  must  answer  for  the 
consequences." 

"  Living  a  slander  down,  Mr.  Coleman,  is  not  always  ihe 
right  course  for  us  to  take,"  replied  the  lawyer.  u  It  would  do 


LIVING   IT    DOWN.  299 

very  well  were  we  alone  concerned ;  but  while  we  are  engaged 
in  living  it  down,  our  usefulness  in  society  is  abridged,  and  oth- 
ers are  liable  to  sustain  injury,  as  in  the  present  case." 

"  What  then  would  you  have  a  man  do,  situated  as  I  was?" 
"  I  would  have  him  not  only  live  right,  for  that  is  the  duty  of 
every  man  ;  but  I  would  have  him  make  use  of  all  the  means  in 
his  power  to  disabuse  men's  minds  of  the  errors  under  which 
they  are  laboring.  In  your  hands  were  ample  means  for  this 
purpose.  It  would  have  been  an  easy  matter  for  you  to  have 
called  together  a  certain  number  of  well  known  and  influential 
individuals,  and  laid  before  them  a  full  statement  of  your  execu- 
torship,  by  which  act  your  integrity  in  their  minds  would  have 
been  fully  established." 

"  Humble  myself  in  that  way,  Mr.  Elliotson  !  No — never  !" 
"  I  do  not  see  that  there  is  any  thing  humiliating  about  it. 
Every  man's  opinion  is  made  up  from  evidence,  and  how  there 
can  be  any  thing  humiliating  in  our  furnishing  to  the  minds  of  our 
fellow  men  the  evidence  by  which  a  false  judgment  may  be  cor- 
rected, is  beyond  my  comprehension." 

"  What  right  had  they  to  make  a  false  judgment  of  my 
acts?" 

"  Because  one  who  was  presumed  to  know,  alleged  that  you 
had  committed  a  wrong  ;  and  to  sustain  his  allegation  were  very 
plausible  appearances.  Every  body  believed  that  your  brother 
had  left  a  large  estate  in  your  hands  for  his  daughter,  and  when 
but  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  dollars  appeared,  were  naturally 
very  much  astonished.  I  own  that  I  was  ;  and  also,  that  I  was 
led  to  doubt  your  integrity,  and  to  concur  with  Mr.  Bassford  in 
substituting  Mr.  Anderson  for  you  as  executor.  Since  then,  the 
true  tacts  of  the  case  have  come  to  my  knowledge  from  a  par- 
ticular friend  of  yours,  to  whom  you  submitted  a  full  examina- 
tion, with  substantiating  documents,  of  the  whole  affair.  So, 
after  all,  Mr.  Coleman,  you  have  not  so  much  lived  down  the 
slander,  as  corrected  public  opinion  by  giving  it  the  proper  evi- 
dence for  arriving  at  a  just  conclusion.  At  least  it  was  so  in 
my  case,  and  I  believe  it  has  been  so  in  every  other  case.  I 
know  very  well  that  all  whom  I  have  heard  speak  of  having 
changed  their  sentiments  are  in  possessioon  of  the  facts  of  the 
case.  What  your  subsequent  life  has  been  is  not  taken  into  the 
account  at  all.  Men's  minds,  Mr.  Coleman,  must  have  some 
evidence  by  which  to  correct  a  false  judgment,  and  if  we  with- 


300  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

hold  this,  we  do  a  wrong  to  society  by  robbing  it  of  our  influ- 
ence. Pardon  me  for  speaking  so  plainly.  The  peculiar  nature 
of  the  circumstances 'that  have  occurred,  have  impressed  the 
truth  I  have  uttered  so  strongly  upon  my  mind,  that  I  could  not 
help  declaring  it." 

Mr.  Coleman  was  silent.  He  saw  as  well  as  felt  that  what 
Mr.  Elliotson  had  said  was  true,  and  that  he  had  been  wrapping 
himself  up  in  false  pride  and  the  dignity  of  mere  self,  and  suf- 
fering wrong  to  be  done,  which  a  little  properly  directed  effort 
on  his  part  would  have  prevented.  He  left  the  lawyer's  office  a 
wiser  man,  at  least,  though  not  as  self-complacent  and  happy  as 
when  he  entered  it. 

A  week  after,  and  it  was  announced  in  business  circles  that 
Mr.  Anderson  had  failed  for  a  heavy  amount.  It  did  not  take 
long  to  ascertain  that  the  property  of  the  widow  and  orphan  had 
been  used  in  his  business,  and  that  all  was  involved  in  the  failure. 

Spurred  on  by  a  consciousness  of  the  error  he  had  committed, 
Mr.  Coleman  instituted  vigorous  measures,  through  Mr.  Elliot- 
son,  for  the  maintenance  of  the  widow's  interests.  Unfortunately, 
the  security  given  by  Mr.  Anderson  proved  to  be  merely  nomi- 
nal. Nothing  was  to  be  expected,  except  from  the  estate  of  the 
failing  executor.  At  the  final  settlement  of  this,  forty-five  cents 
on  the  dollar  was  the  whole  sum  realized,  which  left  Mrs.  Bass- 
ford  and  her  children  the  possessors  of  just  thirty  thousand  dol- 
lars instead  of  more  than  double  that  sum.  There  was  no  one 
who  did  not  believe  that  Mr.  Anderson  had  embezzled  the  wi- 
dow's property.  He  continued  to  live  in  his  usual  style,  although 
out  of  business.  But  nothing  like  property  could  be  found  and 
identified  as  his. 

Results  of  a  like  character  with  this,  though  varying  in  their 
external  features,  always  follow,  when  men  seek,  in  the  pride 
of  conscious  integrity,  to  "  live  down  "  a  serious  charge  that 
is  made  against  them,  instead  of  at  once  furnishing  evidence 
to  prove  their  innocence.  We  hear  a  great  deal  said  about 
this  "  living  down"  detraction ;  but  we  have  something  besides 
mere  living  right  to  do — that  is  every  man's  duty  without  refer- 
ence to  things  external — we  must  give  men  the  ability  to  form 
just  estimates  of  our  characters  whenever  we  have  it  in  our 
power.  If  we  do  not,  we  are  responsible  for  any  injury  that  so- 
ciety may  sustain  in  consequence  of  our  influence  for  good  being 
lost. 


THE   CHOWDER    PARTY. 


It  is  pleasant,  sometimes,  to  lay  aside  the  dignity  of  social 
intercourse,  and  let  our  natural  impulses  come  into  their  true 
activity — in  a  word,  to  be  free  from  the  staid  conventionality  of 
an  artificial  world,  where  every  man  regulates  the  expression  of 
his  face,  the  motions  of  his  head,  the  cut  of  his  coat,  and  the 
carriage  of  his  whole  body,  with  a  view  to  impressing  his  neigh- 
bor with  an  idea  of  his  importance ;  and  where  ladies  talk  rnin- 
cingly,  walk  daintily,  and  fear  to  step  on  any  thing  harder  than 
Saxony  or  Brussels,  lest  the  act  should  impress  others  with  an 
idea  of  something  vulgar  and  unrefined. 

This  lacing  up  of  the  natural  impulses  in  a  social  straight- 
jacket,  like  the  damming  of  waters,  makes  their  overflow  the 
more  tumultuous  when  restrictions  are  withdrawn.  This  is  seen 
every  day.  Remove  the  pressure  ;  turn  away  the  public  eye, 
and  how  quickly  do  the  feet,  that  moved  so  delicately  and  dain- 
tily along  the  crowded  avenue  or  carpeted  floor,  spring  with  a 
wild,  yet  graceful  activity  !  How  loudly  rings  the  echoing  voice 
that,  a  moment  before,  scarcely  rose  above  a  musical  whisper ! 

"  I  shall  never  forget,"  said  a  friend,  recently,  "  the  different 
impressions  made  upon  me  by  the  same  individual  under  differ- 
ent circumstances.  I  was  spending  a  few  days  in  Boston,  with 
leisure  to  see  the  lions,  when  I  stepped  into  the  court-room  to 
hear  an  argument  from  one  of  the  profoundest,  most  dignified, 
and  eloquent  lawyers  of  the  day.  The  case  he  was  pleading 
involved  not  only  important  interests,  but  principles  of  the  high- 
est moment  to  the  well-being  of  society.  I  do  not  remember  ever 
to  have  been  so  strongly  impressed  with  the  majesty  and  power 
of  a  great  mind  as  I  was  oa  that  occasion.  The  advocate  stood 
26  301 


302  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTEB. 

above  the  common  level,  to  me  a  kind  of  personification  of  the 
noble  truths  to  which  he  was  giving  utterance.  That  he  could 
have  a  human  weakness ;  could  ever  descend  to  the  plane  of 
other  men,  seemed  impossible.  A  jest  from  his  lips  would  be 
little  less  than  a  profanity.  So  I  felt.  A  week  later,  and  I  met 
him  under  other  and  different  circumstances.  I  was  invited 
to  go  with  a  party  of  a  dozen  to  eat  a  chowder  on  Plum 
Island.  You  may  be  sure  that  I  felt  as  if  we  should  not  have 
much  of  that  free  and  easy  enjoyment  so  peculiar  to  a  chowder 
party,  when  I  saw  the  great  man  I  have  mentioned  step  on  board 
our  little  schooner,  with  his  grave  face  and  majestic  tread.  It 

was  not  long,  however,  before  I  was  undeceived.     W- 's 

calm  lips  and  solemn  eyes  were  soon  wreathing  in  smiles  and 
dancing  in  merry  light ;  and  the  group  that  gathered  around 
him  to  listen,  were,  ere  long,  convulsed  with  laughter.  How 
strangely,  at  first,  sounded  a  tale  of  humor  from  lips  which  had 
so  recently  uttered  sentiments  of  the  profoundest  wisdom !  But 
I  soon  ceased  to  wonder  in  the  pleasure  I  found  in  listening. 
As  before,  I  hung  upon  his  words,  for  he  was  great  even  in 
little  things.  His  wit  was  not  coarse,  nor  his  stories  low  ;  but, 
while  full  of  humor,  evincing  an  acute  observation  and  a  keen 
sense  of  the  ridiculous.  While  he  sported  with  the  freedom  of 
a  careless  boy,  it  was  with  something  of  the  movement  of  a 
giant.  You  felt  that,  if  you  ventured  upon  an  encounter  of  wits, 
you  would  soon  be  pierced  through  and  through  with  a  hundred 
arrows.  I  don't  know  when  I  enjoyed  a  sail  so  well  as  that  one 
in  Boston  harbor.  But  I  had  yet  to  see  more  of  the  great  man 
unbent  from  his  dignity.  After  casting  our  hooks  on  the  fishing 
banks,  and  taking  a  couple  of  fine  cod,  we  sailed  quietly  back 

to  Plum  Island,  where  the  feast  was  to  come  off.     W ,  I 

found,  the  most  active  man  in  the  party,  in  all  that  pertained 
to  the  chowder.  It  was  he  who  drove  down  the  stakes,  on 
which  to  rest  the  pole  that  was  to  support  the  great  iron  pot  over 
the  drift-wood  fire.  It  was  he  that  carefully  placed  the  alter- 
nate layers  of  fish,  salt  pork,  potatoes  and  pilot  bread,  with  a 
due  proportion  of  pepper  and  salt,  in  said  iron  pot,  for  no  man 
in  Boston  knew  better  how  to  make  a  chowder  ;  and  it  was  he 
that  superintended  the  whole  cooking  process,  from  the  time  the 
savory  mess  began  to  simmer,  until  it  was  bubbling,  seething, 
and  revolving,  a  perfect  salamagundi,  sending  forth  clouds  of 
steam  that  came  with  a  tempting  odor  to  our  sharpened  appe- 


THE    CHOWDER    PARTY.  303 

tites.  And  it  was  he  who  manufactured  the  first  clam-shell 
spoon,  its  handle  a  split  stick,  and  served  up  the  first  plate-full 
of  our  delicious  repast.  I  see  him  now,  sitting  beside  me  on 
the  green  grass,  with  the  great  iron  pot  bubbling  and  boiling  in 
our  midst,  and  will  ever  see  the  picture.  The  great  man  had 
come  clown  to  the  common  level ;  but  my  respect  for  him  was 
not  in  the  least  diminished.  I  think  of  him  as  one  gifted  with 
great  abilities  to  serve  the  common  good,  and  yet  with  a  heart 
full  of  human  sympathies  ;  re^dy  to  lay  aside  the  dignity  of 
office  and  station,  and  mingle  with  his  fellow-men  in  all  the  just 
relations  of  business  or  pleasure.  His  bow  is  the  more  vigor- 
ous, because  it  is  sometimes  unbent." 

And  not  alone  does  a  chowder  party  show  you  the  truly  great 
in  some  strong  conctrasts  of  character — the  little  great  are  alike 
presented.  We  never  had  the  pleasure  of  eating  a  chowder 

with  the  distinguished  W ,  of  whom  of  our  friend  speaks, 

but  we  have  eaten  chowder,  and  seen  a  little  of  the  unbending 
to  which  we  have  alluded.  A  chowder  party,  to  be  a  frolic  of 
the  first  order,  must  not  be  confined  to  the  masculine  gender. 
Some  of  the  better  halves  of  this  smiling  world  must  be  of  the 
number,  in  order  to  make  the  pleasure  more  earnest,  spicy  and 
real. 

Fine  ladies  in  a  parlor,  a  ball-room,  or  opera-house,  have 
certainly  a  more  dignified  appearance,  and  an  air  of  greater  ele- 
gance, than  the  same  ladies  gathered  on  the  narrow  quarter- 
deck, or  stowed  away  in  the  narrower  cabin  of  a  jaunty  little 
schooner.  Different  circumstances  produce  different  impressions 
on  the  mind,  and,  of  course,  prompt  to  different  actions.  We 
never  had  occasion  to  notice  so  striking  an  exemplification  of 

this  as  in  the  case  of  two  young  ladies,  the  Misses  G , 

whom  we  met  on  a  visit  to  Boston.  They  were  the  pinks  of 
propriety  in  every  thing — whether  of  thought,  word  or  action. 
There  was  a  daintiness,  so  to  speak,  in  their  conversation,  that 
caused  you  to  notice  them  above  others,  and  to  feel  constraint 
while  in  their  presence.  Before  visiting  them,  you  would  be 
certain  to  look  at  yourself  in  the  glass  at  least  half  a  dozen  times ; 
you  would  examine  your  nails  as  often  to  see  if  they  were  pared 
by  geometrical  rules ;  and  inspect  your  boots  with  critical  care, 
lest  there  should  be  on  them  an  unpolished  spot  as  large  as  a 
fly's  wing. 

When  we  heard  Miss  Hetty  and  Miss  Meeta  G express 


334  SKETCHES   OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

a  slight  degree  of  vulgar  enthusiasm  at  the  proposition  to  get  up 
a  chowder  party,  we  must  own  to  being  rather  surprised.  We 
were  more  surprised  at  the  sequel.  When  we  next  met  them, 
it  was  on  board  a  trig  little  schooner,  on  the  deck  of  which  were 
assembled  about  two  dozen  young  men  and  women  all  ripe  for 
a  day  of  freedom  and  enjoyment.  Bodies  were  moving  about, 
and  tongues  running  with  an  uneasiness  and  good  humored  im- 
patience that  marked  the  range  of  the  thermometer  of  anticipa- 
tion. Among  the  most  restless  and  talkative  were  our  two  young 
ladies ;  and  we  noted,  not  without  surprise,  that  in  their  ges- 
tures and  modes  of  expression,  they  had  entirely  sunk  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

As  to  the  costume  of  the  party,  it  was  not  particularly  distin- 
guished for  elegance.  The  ladies  were  not  burdened  with  use- 
less ornaments  in  the  way  of  jewelry,  ribbons,  laces,  silk  shawls. 
or  satin  slippers ;  and  some  of  them  looked  as  if  they  had  bor- 
rowed their  untidily  fitting  calico  frocks  from  the  five-year  un- 
opened clothes-presses  of  their  grandmothers.  As  for  the  men, 
duck  trowsers,  roundabouts,  and  tarpaulins,  constituted  the  pre- 
vailing fashion ;  while  each  one  was  equipped  with  lines,  bob 
and  sinker,  and  a  plentiful  supply  of  hooks — not  forgetting  a 
few  silver  ones,  in  case  the  steel  hooks  should  fail. 

After  we  had  cast  off  and  were  gliding  down  the  bay,  borne 
along  by  a  stiff  breeze,  we  took  a  glance  into  the  cuddy,  or  lit- 
tle cabin,  under  a  hint  from  one  of  the  party,  to  look  at  the 
stores.  Here  is  the  inventory,  as  nearly  as  can  be  recollected  : 
two  frying-pans,  each  as  large  round  as  a  half-bushel ;  a  big 
iron  pot,  "  that  would  hold  the  full  of  two  milk-pails  ;"  tea- 
kettles and  tea-pots ;  -soup  dishes,  pewter  spoons,  knives  and 
forks,  cups,  bowls  and  tumblers.  A  gallon  pitcher  was  in  the 
midst  of  the  tumblers,  and  both  were  in  close  contact  with  a 
demijohn  of  old  Jamaica,  and  a  tower  of  best  white  loaf — these 
last  were  provided  as  an  "  antifogmatic."  In  close  proximity 
was  a  hamper  of  Irish  potatoes,  a  basket  of  pilot  bread,  and  a 
layer  of  fat  salt  pork,  four  inches  in  thickness.  We  were  mo- 
ving along  under  a  stiff  breeze,  and  in  about  two  hours  landed 
the  fairer  and  merrier  portion  of  our  company  at  Long  Island 
Head,  to  pick  raspberries,  hunt  for  sea-cockles,  and  make  pre- 
parations for  dinner,  while  we  sailed  away  to  the  fishing  banks, 
to  provide  the  main  stay  of  our  intended  chowder.  In  due  time 
we  returned ;  but  whether  we  had  caught  the  fine  cod  we  pro- 


THE    CHOWDER    PARTY.  305 

duced  with  steel  or  silver  hook,  was  more  than  we  acknowledged 
to  the  ladies,  notwithstanding  they  made  pretty  shrewd  guesses 
as  to  the  truth,  and  bantered  us  not  a  little  on  the  subject. 

Wilder  romps  than  Hetty  and  Meeta  G I  never  remem- 
ber to  have  seen  ;  and  they  romped  as  gracefully  and  naturally 
as  if  they  had  been  used  to  it  all  their  lives.  With  their  check 
aprons — or  rather  their  mother's — tied  around  them  with  tape 
strings,  they  were,  in  all  the  work  to  be  done,  the  busiest  and 
the  handiest.  They  were  most  forward  in  cutting  up  the  fish, 
and  placing  the  alternate  layers  of  pork,  cod,  potatoes  and  bread 
in  the  great  iron  pot ;  in  making  the  tea  and  browning  the 
"  smaller  fry  ;"  in  arranging  the  plates  on  the  green  grass  table- 
cloth ;  in  ladling  out  the  savory  stew  ;  and  last,  not  least,  in 
using  the  clam-shell  spoons,  after  we  had  all  doubled  our  nether 
limbs  under  us  on  the  sward,  arranged  in  a  circle  around  the 
afore-mentioned  iron  pot. 

Exercise,  the  sea  air,  and  seven  hours'  abstinence,  gave  us 
keen  appetites.  Grateful  to  the  palate  as  was  the  rich  mess  that 
had  been  cooked  on  the  beach,  and  wrhich  we  were  eating  after 
so  primitive  a  fashion,  I  could  not  help  pausing  now  and  then 
to  look  at  some  of  the  fine  young  ladies  of  our  party,  as  they  al- 
most shoveled  in  plate-full  after  plate-full.  Even  with,  if  not 
a  little  ahead  of  the  rest,  were  Misses  Meeta  and  Hetty.  The 
quantity  they  managed  to  dispose  of  was  surprising.  Some  of  it 
must  be  sticking  to  their  ribs  yet ! 

An  hour  of  repose  followed  this  climax  of  the  day's  doings  ; 
and  then,  after  the  dish-washing  was  performed,  "  as  handy  as 
could  be,"  by  the  ladies  of  the  party,  we  embarked  for  the  city, 
in  a  quieter  mood  than  when  we  came  out.  The  business  of  the 
day  was  over,  and  the  mind  rested  from  its  excitement.  Anti- 
cipation gave  place  to  revery.  Darkness  threw  a  kindly  veil 
over  our  rude,  disordered  toilet  when  we  landed,  and  satisfied 
with  the  chowdering,  we  all  sought  our  homes  and  our  beds. 
Strange  to  say,  the  sleep  of  one,  at  least,  was  free  from  night- 
mare ;  exercise,  a  fine,  bracing  sea  air,  good  company  and  good 
spirits,  had  given  tone  to  a  rather  delicate  stomach,  and  carried 
off  a  chowder  as  if  it  had  been  a  .whip  syllabub. 

When  we  next  met  the  young  ladies,  they  were  as  of  old.  It 
seemed  almost  impossible,  as  we  sat  conversing  with  and  look- 
ing at  them,  that  they  ever  could  have  prepared,  much  less  eaten, 
a  chowder  at  Long  Island  Head — could  ever  have  made  a  frol- 
26* 


306  A    DREAM   OF   CITY   LIFE. 

icsome  portion  of  one  of  the  most  free  and  easy  parties  it  has 
been  our  fortune  to  enjoy.  But  thus  it  is  that  circumstances 
bring  out  what  is  within,  and  exhibit  character  in  new  and  often 
strange  aspects. 


A   BREATH    OF    CITY    LIFE. 


Near  the  quiet  village  of  Greenbank,  lived  Fanny  Lee.  Her 
mother  was  a  widow,  and  had  two  children  besides  Fanny. 
A  little  cottage  and  a  homestead  of  a  few  acres,  made  up 
the  widow's  possessions.  The  one  gave  shelter  to  her  little  fam- 
ily, and  from  the  other  she  obtained  food  to  nourish  their  bodies 
and  something  with  which  to  buy  the  few  articles  they  needed 
beyond  what  the  farm  produced. 

As  the  eldest,  Fanny  knew  what  it  was  to  be  busy.  She  was 
up  with  the  dawn,  and  often,  when  the  daylight  closed,  her  tasks 
remained  unfinished.  But  for  all  that,  Fanny's  heart  was  as 
light  as  the  heart  of  a  bird.  She  was  always  to  be  found  sing- 
ing at  her  work. 

More  than  a  hundred  miles  away,  in  one  of  the  great  Atlan- 
tic cities,  lived  Mary  Milton,  a  cousin  of  Fanny  Lee's.  Two  or 
three  times  Mary  had  come  up,  in  the  summer  season,  to  spend  a 
week  with  her  aunt  and  cousins.  On  these  occasions,  Fanny 
had  numerous  enquiries  to  make  about  the  city ;  and  Mary, 
very  naturally  sketched,  for  such  an  auditor,  many  glowing  pic- 
tures. 

One  summer,  Mary  came  up  to  Greenbank  and  staid  nearly 
three  weeks.  She  was  pale,  looked  sickly,  and  had  but  little 
appetite  when  she  arrived.  But  in  the  brief  time  she  was  with 


A    DREAM   OF    CITY   LIFE.  307 

her  cousin,  she  changed  greatly.  The  color  warmed  in  her 
cheek,  her  appetite  was  restored,  and  she  could  walk  miles  with- 
out experiencing  fatigue.  Yet,  for  all  this  change,  Mary  grew 
tired  of  the  country,  and  by  the  end  of  three  weeks  was  sighing 
to  get  back  among  her  gayer  city  friends.  During  this  visit, 
Fanny's  ears  were  filled,  as  before,  with  accounts  of  what  was 
to  be  seen  and  enjoyed  in  the  city. 

"  Oh  !  I  should  die  in  this  dull  place,"  said  Mary  one  day, 
near  the  close  of  her.  visit.  "  How  in  the  world  do  you  manage 
to  live  through  the  year  ?" 

Fanny  smiled,  but  did  not  reply. 

"  I  wish  you  would  go  to  the  city  with  me,  Coz." 

"  What  could  I  do  there  ?"  asked  Fanny. 

"  Why,  learn  a  trade,  or  get  a  place  in  some  store.  I  know 
plenty  of  girls  who  receive  five  dollars  a  week." 

"  Indeed  !  So  much  ?"  said  Fanny,  struck  with  the  mention 
of  so  large  a  sum. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Mary. 

"  It  would  take  me  a  long  time  to  learn  a  trade." 

"  Oh,  no.  Many  girls  learn  in  six  months.  You  could  get 
boarding  in  some  family,  that  wanted  a  little  help,  for  what  you 
could  do  about  the  house  in  the  morning  and  evenings." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?" 

"  I  know  it." 

"  What  trade  is  a  good  one  ?"  asked  Fanny. 

"  You  might  learn  the  dress  making,  or  millinery  business." 

'•  Could  I  make  five  dollars  a  week  as  a  dress-maker?" 

"  No.  But  you  would  be  certain  to  earn  three  dollars  a  week ; 
and  that's  a  good  deal!" 

"  I  would  be  very  well  satisfied  with  three  dollars  a  week.  I 
hardly  see  as  much  money  in  a  year,  now." 

"  And  then,"  said  Mary,  "  there  is  so  much  to  be  enjoyed  in 
the  city.  I  go  to  a  dozen  balls  and  parties  every  winter  ;  and 
to  such  delightful  pic  nics  in  the  summer  time." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  should  get  tired  of  sewing  from  morning  till 
night." 

"  You  might  at  first.  But  you'd  soon  get  used  to  it,"  replied 
Mary.  "  What  is  sewing  to  your  slavish  work  out  here  in  the 
country.  "  I've  seen  you  cutting  wood  with  the  axe ;  and  even 
digging  in  the  garden  ;  to  say  nothing  of  washing  and  iron- 
ing'every  week,  and  cooking  and  scrubbing  every  day.  Oh 


308  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

dear !  Such  kind  of  work  would  kill  me.     Sewing  is  nothing 

It  did  strike  Fanny,  that,  all  these  things  mentioned  by  Mary, 
were  hard  tasks^-harder  than  was  meet  for  a  young  girl  to  per- 
form, and  the  faint  desire  for  a  city  life,  already  experienced, 
grew  stronger. 

"  I've  been  persuading  Fanny  to  go  the  city  with  me," 
said  Mary  to  Mrs.  Lee,  a  day  or  two  before  she  was  to  return 
home. 

"  To  the  city  !  Nonsense  !  What  would  Fanny  do  in  the  city  ?" 
returned  Mrs.  Lee  in  a  tone  of  disapprobation. 

"  Do  as  we  do.  She  can  learn  a  trade  and  support  herself 
handsomely." 

"  And  die  of  consumption,  or  something  worse,  in  less  than 
five  years,"  said  Mrs.  Lee. 

"  Do  I  look  as  if  I  were  going  to  die  of  consumption  ?"  asked 
Mary. 

"  No,  not  now  ;  thanks  to  our  country  air!  But,  when  you 
came  up,  you  looked  as  if  you  might  drop  off  in  less  than  a 
twelve-month." 

'•  Why,  Aunt  Fanny  !"  exclaimed  Mary. 

"  It's  true,  child  !     I  noticed  it,  and  spoke  of  it." 

"  I'm  sure  I  was  perfectly  well,  Aunt." 

"And  I  am  just  as  sure  that  you  were  not.  Why,  you 
could'nt  eat  a  piece  of  bread  as  big  as  my  hand  for  breakfast, 
nor  walk  a  quarter  of  a  mile  without  sitting  down  to  rest.  Now, 
I  wouldn't  give  much  for  a  loaf  after  your  appetite  was  satisfied ; 
and  you  can  ran  a  mile  with  more  ease  than  you  could  walk  a 
fourth  of  the  distance." 

Mary  laughed,  and  demurred  to  all  this.  But  Mrs.  Lee  re- 
affirmed it,  and  said  that  she  had  just  as  lief  see  Fanny  laid  in 
the  little  village  church  yard,  as  go  away  and  be  buried  up  in  a 
great  city.  So  positively  did  the  mother  speak,  that  both  Fanny 
and  Mary  felt  that  it  was  useless  to  say  any  thing  more  on  the 
subject.  But  they  talked  it  over  to  themselves,  daily,  while 
Mary  remained,  and  when  the  cousins  at  length  parted,  it  was 
with  a  promise  from  Fanny  that  she  would  come  to  the  city  if 
she  could  possibly  do  so  with  her  mother's  approbation. 

After  Mary  had  gone  back,  Fanny's  mind  remained  filled, 
almost  to  the  exclusion  of  every  thing  else,  with  thoughts  of  a 
city  life.  Her  daily  tasks  became  irksome,  and  her  voice,  which 


A    DREAM    OF    CITY   LIFE.  309 

had  carolled  from  morning  until  night,  like  the  voice  of  a  bird, 
rarely  broke  forth  in  song ;  and  when  it  did  so,  but  half  its  mel- 
ody remained. 

Fanny  had  a  lover.  He  was  a  smart  lad,  who  worked  on  a 
farm  near  by  her  mother's  cottage.  Fanny  had  been  much 
pleased  with  the  attentions  of  Peter  Wilkins — that  was  his  name 
— up  to  the  period  of  her  cousin's  last  visit.  But  Mary  laughed 
at  him  so  unmercifully,  and  called  him  so  often  a  "  country 
bumpkin,"  that  Fanny,  from  first  feeling  a  little  ashamed  of 
him,  was  led  to  treat  him  with  indifference.  Peter  was  hurt  at 
this  conduct,  and  returned  it  with  equal  coolness.  After  Mary's 
return,  Peter,  who  rightly  attributed  the  change  in  Fanny  to  the 
influence  of  her  sprightly  cousin,  approached  his  sweetheart  with 
something  of  his  old  familiarity.  But  Fanny's  thoughts  were 
still  away  in  the  city,  and  her  country  lover,  with  all  else  pertain- 
ing to  the  country,  had  but  few  attractions  for  her  eyes.  And 
so  she  treated  him  with  even  greater  indifference ;  an  indiffer- 
ence, in  fact,  that  Peter  felt  to  be  almost  insulting.  He  was,  in 
consequence,  offended,  and  turned  himself,  in  painful  disap- 
pointment, from  one  whose  presence  had  always  been  like  a  ray 
of  sunshine  across  his  path.  Fanny  felt  this  change,  and  it 
helped  to  make  her  more  unhappy  and  discontented. 

One  day,  not  many  weeks  after  Mary  had  gone  back  to  the 
city,  Mrs.  Lee,  seeing  the  change  in  Fanny,  took  occasion  to 
have  a  long  conversation  with  her.  In  this  conversation,  Fanny 
had  a  great  deal  to  say  against  the  country ;  while  she  drew 
glowing  pictures  of  city  life  and  its  advantages.  Though  she 
would  not  admit  that  there  was  force  in  any  thing  urged  in  op- 
position by  her  mother,  yet  some  of  the  statements  that  were 
made  fixed  themselves  in  her  memory,  and  she  could  not  help 
thinking  of  them  after  the  excitement  of  the  interview  had  passed 
away. 

On  the  next  afternoon  Fanny  was  left  alone.  Her  mother 
having  occasion  to  go  into  the  neighboring  village,  took  the  two 
younger  children  with  her.  While  Fanny  sat  sewing  on  a  gar- 
ment for  her  brother,  her  thoughts  wandered  off,  as  usual,  to  the 
city ;  and  so  absorbed  did  she  become  in  the  pictures  that  came 
before  her  imagination,  that,  in  a  little  while,  her  hands  were 
lying  idly  in  her  lap,  and  her  eyes  fixed  in  dreamy  vacancy. 
Arousing  herself  with  an  effort,  she  lifted  her  work,  and  went  on 
with  it  again ;  but,  ia  a  little  while,  her  hands  were  still,  and 


310  SKETCHES   OF    LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

her  eyes  half  closed  in  revery.  Thus  it  continued  for  some  time, 
when  she  saw  her  mother  enter  the  little  garden  gate,  and  ap- 
proach the  door.  It  was  at  least  two  hours  earlier  than  she  had 
expected  her  to  return,  and  she  came  unaccompanied  by  the 
children.  But  these  circumstances  occasioned  in  the  min'd  of 
Fanny  no  surprise. 

"  I  have  a  letter  from  your  cousin  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Lee  on 
coming  into  the  house,  "'and  she  says  that  she  has  obtained  for 
you  a  good  place  in  a  store,  for  which  you  will  be  paid  four  dol- 
lars a  week.  You  must  leave  for  the  city  to-morrow  morning." 

Fanny's  heart  bounded  with  delight  at  this  intelligence.  Her 
work  was  thrown  aside,  and  instant  preparations  for  the  journey 
were  commenced.  It  seemed  scarcely  an  hour  ere  the  night  was 
past,  and  the  time  of  separation  had  arrived.  But  so  elated  was 
the  mind  of  Fanny  with  the  prospect  before  her,  that  she  conld 
hardly  go  through  the  decent  forms  of  parting.  Though  her 
cheek  was  wet  with  her  mother's  tears  as  the  stage  drove  off, 
there  was  a  smile  upon  her  lip,  and  a  warm  emotion  of  pleasure 
at  her  heart. — It  was  a  day's  journey  to  the  city.  Night  had 
fallen  ere  the  cars  by  which  Fanny  had  come  over  sixty  miles  of 
the  distance,  arrived  at  the  depot.  Mary  was  there  to  meet  and 
to  welcome  her ;  but,  somehow,  the  welcoming  was  not  so  cor- 
dial as  she  had  expected  to  receive.  Mary  said  that  she  was 
overjoyed  to  see  her ;  but  there  was  nothing  in  the  tone  of  her 
voice,  nor  in  the  expression  of  her  face  that  agreed  with  the 
words  she  uttered. 

"  You  must  go  home  with  me  to-night,"  said  Mary,  "  and  to- 
morrow we  will  find  you  a  boarding  house." 

And  such  a  home  as  Mary's  proved  to  be!  It  was  in  a  nar- 
row court,  and  the  room  she  occupied  was  a  poorly  furnished 
attic,  the  stifled  air  of  which,  to  one  who  had  lived  all  her  life 
among  the  sweet  mountain  breezes,  could  scarcely  be  inhaled 
without  a  feeling  of  suffocation.  Since  morning,  Fanny  had  ta- 
ken no  food  ;  but  Mary  did  not  ask  her  if  she  had  been  to  sup- 
per, and  she  would  not  speak  of  it  herself.  So,  hungry  and  faint 
though  she  felt,  she  received  no  refreshment. 

"  I  have  to  go  out  to-night,  Fanny,"  said  her  cousin,  soon  after 
she  came  in.  "  So  you  must  make  yourself  at  home  here  until 
I  return." 

"  At  home  !"  How  the  words  sent  back  the  thoughts  of  Fan- 
ny to  her  own  home,  and  the  loving  mother  from  whom  she  had 


A    DREAM    OF    CITY    LIFE.  311 

parted.  In  a  little  while  she  was  alone,  in  the  great,  strange 
city,  hid  away,  as  it  were,  in  a  garret,  and  not  a  face  to  look 
upon.  There  was  a  murmur  of  voices  below  ;  but  they  were 
the  voices  of  strangers,  and  made  her  loneliness  the  more  oppres- 
sive. It  was  not  long  before  she  was  in  tears.  Sad,  lonely, 
heart- sick  she  was,  already,  although  the  earth  had  not  perform- 
ed one  revolution  since  she  turned  her  face  away  from  her  plea- 
sant home.  Hours  went  by  ;  yet  Mary  did  not  return.  Over- 
wearied,at  last,  with  weeping  and  thinking,  Fanny  threw  herself 
upon  the  bed.  When  next  conscious,  it  was  daylight.  Mary 
had  come  home,  and  was  sleeping  by  her  side. 

At  breakfast  time,  Fanny  joined  the  family  with  whom  her 
cousin  boarded.  The  faces  she  met  were  repulsive,  and  the 
conversation  that  passed  had  much  in  it  that  shocked  her  ears. 
As  for  the  food  that  was  set  before  her,  it  looked  and  tasted  so 
differently  from  what  she  had  been  used  to  at  home,  that  it  was 
with  difficulty  she  could  swallow  it.  And  then,  there  was  some- 
thing so  offensive  to  her  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  small,  close 
room  where  the  badly  cooked  meal  was  served,  that  it  made  her 
feel  sick. 

After  breakfast,  Mary  took  her  cousin  to  a  dry  goods  store, 
where  a  stern  looking  man  asked  her  many  questions  touching 
her  ability  to  act  in  the  capacity  of  a  saleswoman.  Of  course,  she 
was  utterly  ignorant  of  the  business. 

"  I'm  afraid,  Miss,  you  won't  suit  me,"  he  said,  indiffer- 
ently. 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,  she  will.  I  know  she  will,"  spoke  up  Mary. — 
"  Only  give  her  a  trial." 

"  How  much  wages  does  she  expect  to  receive  ?"  asked  the 
man. 

"  You  wrote  four  dollars  a  week,"  said  Fanny,  turning  to  her 
cousin. 

"  Four  dollars  a  week  !"  spoke  up  the  man,  in  a  half  sneer. 
— "  The  best  girl  in  my  store  only  gets  that.  I'll  give  you 
a  dollar-and-a-half  to  begin  with.  And  if  you  learn  quickly, 
and  make  yourself  useful,  I'll  increase  your  wages  after  a  few 
months." 

"  It  will  cost  her  two  dollars  a  week  for  board,"  said  Mary. 

"  I  don't  care  any  thing  about  that,"  returned  the  man  ab- 
niptly.  "  What  I've  said,  I've  said.  If  she  likes  to  come  for  a 
dollar-and-a-half  a  week,  why,  she  can  come.  And  if  not,  not.'' 


312          SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER. 

Fanny  looked  at  Mary.  Her  heart  and  eyes  were  birth  full, 
and  she'  did  not  venture  to  speak. 

"  You'd  better  try  it,  Fanny,"  said  her  cousin.  "  I  don't 
know  of  any  other  place  ;  and,  perhaps,  you  can  get  board  for  a 
dollar-and-a-half." 

Fanny  did  not  oppose  this,  and  her  cousin  left  her.  Poor 
child  !  So  overcome  was  she  by  the  strangeness  and  perplexity 
of  her  situation,  that  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and 
sobbed  aloud. 

"  Come  !  come  !"  said  the  shop-keeper,  sternly.  "  I  want 
none  of  this  nonsense !  If  you  intend  accepting  the  situation, 
say  so  ;  if  not,  you  can  retire." 

Fanny  composed  herself  with  a  strong  effort,  and  looking  up, 
said  that  she  would  take  his  offer,  and  do  the  best  she  could. — 
Though  it  was  early  in  the  day,  customers  had  already  been 
in,  for  a  part  of  one  of  the  counters  was  piled  with  goods.  To 
roll  these  up  and  replace  them  upon  the  shelves  was  the  first 
work  assigned  to  Fanny.  Long  before  she  had  accomplished 
the  task,  other  customers  had  called,  and  other  goods  had  been 
thrown  upon  the  counter.  For  hours  and  hours  she  worked  on, 
and  still  the  end  was  as  far  off  as  when  she  began.  Her  limbs 
ached  with  standing,  and  her  back  and  shoulders  from  the  labor 
of  rolling  and  lifting  the  many  pieces  of  goods  she  was  required 
to  handle.  Thus  through  the  day  she  toiled  on,  and  when  night 
came,  she  found  her  way  back,  as  best  she  could,  to  the  unin- 
viting home  of  Mary,  so  weary  and  faint  that  she  could  hardly 
stand.  The  woman  with  whom  Mary  boarded,  after  some  per- 
suasion, agreed  to  take  Fanny  at  a  dollar-and-a-half  a  week, 
the  full  amount  of  the  wages  she  was  to  receive,  if  she  would 
share  the  room  and  bed  of  her  cousin.  After  this  arrangement 
was  agreed  to,  Fanny  shrunk  away  into  the  little  garret,  where 
she  spent  the  evening  in  weeping.  After  tea,  a  young  man 
called  to  take  Mary  to  some  place  of  amusement,  thus  leaving 
Fanny  again  alone  with  her  own  sad  thoughts.  And  sad  enough 
they  were. 

At  the  end  of  a  week,  the  shop-keeper  paid  Fanny  her  dollar- 
and-a-half,  but,  at  the  same  time,  told  her  that  she  was  "  too 
awkward  and  countrified "  to  suit  him,  and  that  she  needn't 
come  back  any  more. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?"  she  enquired  of  Mary,  when  she  met  her 
cousin  in  the  evening,  wringing  her  hands  as  she  spoke. 


A    DREAM    OF    CITY   LIFE.  313 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  returned  Mary  ;  "  unless  you  go 
and  learn  a  trade." 

"  But  I'll  not  receive  wages  while  learning  a  trade." 

«  No." 

"  How,  then,  can  I  pay  ray  board  ?" 

"  You  will  have  to  go  into  some  body's  work  room,  and  stay 
a  year  for  your  board  and  the  chance  of  learning." 

"  And  get  no  clothes  ?" 

"  No." 

The  utterance  of  Fanny  became  so  choked  that  she  did  not 
venture  to  speak  out  her  thoughts  for  the  moment.  No  clothes 
for  a  year  !  It  was  impossible  for  her  to  go  a  year  without  some 
additions  to  her  wardrobe.  Even  now  she  needed  to  have  an 
entire  set  of  new  dresses,  for  those  she  had  brought  with  her 
from  the  country  were  in  so  strange  a  fashion,  that  her  appear- 
ance had  caused  remarks  that  were  extremely  annoying.  The 
necessity  for  new  clothes  was  felt  still  more  strongly  on  the  next 
day,  which  was  the  Sabbath.  Mary  dressed  herself  gaily,  and 
said  she  was  going  to  church. 

"  But  you  mus'nt  think  of  going,  Fanny,"  she  said,  "  in  your 
outlandish  looking  clothes.  They  were,  surely,  made  in  the  year 
one !" 

A  thoughtless  laugh  followed  this  speech.  Mary,  after  ar- 
raying herself  in  all  the  finery  she  had  been  able  to  accumulate, 
danced  gaily  before  the  glass,  and  then  courtesying  and  smirk- 
ing to  Fanny,  wished  her  a  pleasant  day,  and  went  tripping 
down  stairs. 

A  sadder  day  Fanny  had  never  spent  in  her  whole  life.  Alone 
from  the  time  her  cousin  left,  until  near  midnight,  for  it  was  al- 
most twelve  o'clock  when  Mary  returned,  she  did  little  else  but 
think  of  the  happy  home  she  had  left,  and  weep.  She  tasted  no 
food  during  the  day. 

On  Monday  morning,  one  of  the  girls  who  boarded  in  tl;e 
house,  told  Fanny  that  she  could  get  a  place  at  a  dollar  a  week 
to  learn  book-folding.  In  a  little  while,  she  said,  two  dollars 
might  be  earned,  and  then  she  could  pay  up  the  deficiency  in 
her  boarding  which  would  take  place  in  the  mean  time.  Fan- 
ny went  with  the  girl  after  breakfast,  and  was  introduced  by  her 
into  a  large  room  or  loft  in  the  third  story  of  an  immense  ware- 
house, where  about  a  dozen  young  women  and  as  many  men 
were  all  busy  at  wo'k.  Here  a  place  was  assigned  her  at  a  long 
27 


314  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

table,  and  she  was  directed  to  fold  some  printed  sheets  of  paper 
in  a  certain  manner.  Diligently  she  worked  at  tbis  for  a  cou- 
ple of  hours,  when  the  owner  of  the  bindery  came  along  and 
examined  what  she  had  done.  Her  heart  beat  anxiously,  but 
he  relieved  her  oppressed  feelings  by  saying  that  she  was  get- 
ting along  very  well.  Then  he  put  on  his  hat  and  went  away. 
The  moment  the  door  closed  after  him,  there  was  a  hum  of 
voices  throughout  the  room.  Laughter  and  merry  jesting  fol- 
lowed ;  then  work  was  abandoned  and  a  game  at  romps  began 
As  Fanny  leaned  over  with  her  folder  in  her  hand,  trying  to 
perform  aright  what  she  was  engaged  in  doing,  some  one  drew 
her  head  back  suddenly  and  kissed  her.  Startled,  and  alarmed 
at  such  a  freedom,  she  sprung  from  her  chair,  and  while  the  room 
echoed  with  laughter,  darted  away.  In  a  few  moments  she  was 
in  the  street,  hurrying  she  knew  not  whither.  What  would  she 
not  have  given,  at  that  moment,  to  have  been  safely  back  in  the 
home  she  had  so  foolishly  left !  As  she  moved  along  the  street 
that  was  was  crowded  with  strangers,  she  met  the  man  in  whose 
store  she  had  been  for  a  week. 

"  Ah,  Fanny  !"  said  he,  with  a  smile,  stopping  and  familiarly 
offering  his  hand.  "  Have  you  got  a  place  yet?" 

Before  Fanny  could  answer,  he  added — 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  child  ?  You're  trembling  all  over 
like  a  leaf." 

Fanny,  in  answer  to  this  question,  related  what  had  just  oc- 
curred, upon  which  the  man  appeared  very  angry. 

"  Come  with  me,"  said  he,  "  and  I  will  find  you  a  good  home 
and  plenty  of  work." 

Fanny's  heart  bounded  when  the  man  said  this.  Trustingly 
she  went  with  him.  He  took  ber  through  many  streets,  and  at 
last  entered  a  house  where  a  pleasant  lady  received  her  with  kind 
words,  and  told  her  that  she  would  give  her  a  home  and  every 
advantage  she  desired.  Then  taking  her  to  a  beautifully  furnished 
chamber,  she  said,  with  a  sweet  smile — 

"  This,  my  dear,  is  your  room.  Rest  and  compose  yourself. 
You  have  been  unkindly  used ;  but  that  is  past  now.  A  pleas- 
ant life  is  before  you." 

Saying  this,  the  lady  retired  and  left  Fanny  to  the  cheerful 
thoughts  that  began  to  flit  through  her  mind.  She  looked  around 
the  chamber,  and  was  surprised  at  the  elegance  and  beauty  of 
every  thing.  A  rich  carpet  was  on  the  floor ;  broad  mirrors 


A    DREAM      OF   CITY   LIFE.  315 

glittered  on  the  walls ;  and  every  article  of  furniture  was  costly 
and  beautiful  beyond  what  she  had  ever  beheld. 

Suddenly,  while  Fanny  was  yet  gazing  around  her  in  wonder, 
a  wild  scream  thrilled  upon  her  ears  ;  and  at  the  same  moment 
Ler  door  flew  open  and  a  beautiful  young  girl  rushed  in,  crying 
as  she  did  so — 

"Oh,  fly!  fly!  fly  from  this  dreadful  place!  Fly  for  your 
life  !" 

She  said  no  more,  for  the  lady  who  had  but  a  few  moments 
previously  left  the  room,  came  rushing  in,  accompanied  by  the 
man  who  had  brought  Fanny  to  the  house.  Her  face  was  dark 
with  anger ;  and  she  seized  the  lovely  young  creature  who  had 
just  uttered  her  frantic  warning,  and  was  dragging  her  away  by 
her  long  dark  hair,  when  Fanny,  half  convulsed  with  terror, 
screamed  aloud. 

Instantly  all  v/as  changed.  She  was  sitting  in  her  mother's 
cottage,  and  her  hands  rested  idly  in  her  lap.  The  sun  was 
shining  down  upon  the  little  green  lawn  that  lay  in  front  of  the 
door,  and  making  brighter  the  flowers,  planted  by  her  own  hands, 
that  graced  the  garden  borders  just  beyond.  And  from  these 
flowers  the  breeze  bore  in  to  her  most  exquisite  and  refreshing 
odors.  Nearly  a  minute  elapsed  before  the  bewildered  girl 
could  realize  that  the  present  was  indeed  reality,  and  the  pain- 
ful scenes  through  which  she  had  just  seemed  to  pass,  but  the 
vagaries  of  a  dream.  When  she  fully  realized  the  truth,  she 
clasped  her  hands  across  her  bosom,  and  lifted  her  eyes,  that 
were  now  full  of  tears,  in  thankfulness  to  Heaven. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards,  and  while  Fanny  was  yet  alone,  a 
short  bark  from,  Lion,  the  house  dog,  warned  her  that  some  one 
was  approaching.  Before  she  had' time  to  reach  the  door,  Peter 
Wilkins  presented  himself.  He  looked  grave,  and  Fanny  well 
understood  the  cause. 

"  Is  your  mother  at  home  ?"  enquired  Peter. 

"  No.  She  has  gone  over  to  Greenbank,"  replied  Fanny. 
"  But  I  expect  hei  home  very  soon  now.  Do  you  want  to  see 
her? 

"  Yes.     I  came  on  an  errand  from  Mr.  Carson." 

"  Won't  you  walk  in  and  sit  down  a  little  while  ?  It  can't 
be  long  ere  mother  is  here."  This  was  said  in  such  a  kind 
way,  and  with  such  a  look  out  of  Fanny's  eyes  !  Peter  felt 
that  the  sunshine  had  come  again.  He  did  not  wait  for  a  se- 


316  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER, 

cond  invitation.  It  was  nearly  an  hour  before  Mrs.  Lee  returned 
from  Greenbank.  Long  ere  that  time,  the  lovers  were  in  the 
best  possible  state  of  good  will  towards  each  other. 

When  Mary  Milton  came  up,  during  the  next  summer,  to 
spend  a  short  time  with  her  aunt  and  cousin,  Fanny  whispered 
in  her  ear  that  she  was  soon  to  become  a  bride.  Mary  had  the 
same  pleasant  news  to  communicate,  touching  herself.  -She 
was  to  be  married  to  a  young  mechanic  on  the  cominer  New- 
Year's  day. 

HOMT  different  looked  the  two  young  girls  !  Fanny's  cheeks 
were  full  and  blooming ;  and  her  steps  as  light  as  those  of  a 
young  deer.  While  Mary's  face  was  thin  and  almost  colorless; 
her  form  slightly  bent ;  and  all  her  movements  languid.  The 
one  was  a  hardy  flower  that  had  received  the  sunshine  and  the 
rain  into  its  bosom,  and  stood  unhurt,  while  it  gained  strength,  in 
the  storm  ;  the  other  was  but  a  puny  plant,  which  had  grown 
up  white  and  slender  in  the  sickly  atmosphere  and  feeble  light 
of  a  great  city.  Fanny  saw  and  felt  the  difference.  Her  trou- 
bled dream  was  all  the  experience  she  asked  of  city  life ;  and 
she  turned  from  it  with  a  thankful  heart,  and  blessed  the  pure, 
bracing  airs  and  freedom  of  her  country  home. 

Not  for  ten  years  did  the  cousins  meet  again.  Mary  came  up 
to  Greenbank  once  more.  Alas  !  How  sadly  she  was  changed  ! 
Prematurely  old,  she  presented  but  the  wreck  of  a  woman, 
around  whom  gathered  three  puny  children,  who  looked  as  if 
the  sun  had  never  shone  upon  them.  As  many  more,  Mary 
said,  with  dim  eyes,  had  passed  to  a  better  world.  As  for  her. 
self  and  all  that  pertained  to  her,  she  had  but  a  poor  account  to 
give.  Her  husband's  health  had  never  been  very  good,  and  he 
had  been  failing  sensibly  for  two  or  three  years.  Since  their 
marriage,  the  average  of  all  his  earnings  had  not  been  over  six 
dollars  a  week,  for  he  had  lost  a  good  deal  of  time  from  sickness. 
In  order  to  increase  their  income,  Mary,  besides  doing  all  the 
work  of  the  family,  had  taken  in  sewing,  and  thus  worked  her- 
self down,  until  she  was  little  more  than  a  skeleton.  As  for  the 
future,  all  looked  gloomy.  Their  little  family  was  growing  more 
expensive,  and  the  health  of  both  Mary  and  her  husband  was 
becoming  worse  and  worse  every  day. 

How  different  was  it  with  Fanny  !  She  had  become  the  wife 
of  Peter  Wilkins,  about  the  time  Mary  was  married.  Wilkins 
was  then  working  on  a  farm  as  a  hired  man,  which  situation  he 


CAN'T  GET  ALONG.  317 

held  for  four  years  longer.  After  this,  he  took  a  farm  on  shares, 
and  managed  it  so  well,  that  in  the  course  of  four  years  more 
he  was  able  to  buy  it,  and  pay  down  half  the  purchase  money 
in  cash.  Both  he  and  Fanny  worked  hard,  during  this  time  ; 
but,  it  was  at  healthy  work,  in  pure  bracing  air,  and  with  light 
and  cheerful  hearts.  Five  as  healthy  and  happy  children  as 
were  ever  seen,  made  glad  their  dwelling ;  and  death  had  not 
once  thrown  his  shadow  across  their  threshold.  Thus  it  was 
•when  Mary  came  up  to  visit  them.  If  Fanny  needed  any  fur- 
ther assurance  of  her  former  error  in  wishing  for  a  city  life,  she 
had  it  now  ;  and  deeply  thankful  was  she  that  her  lot  had  been 
cast  among  the  pleasant  vales  and  breezy  hills  of  quiet  Green- 
bank. 


CAN'T  GET  ALONG 


"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  said  Felix  Hall,  "  that  some  peo- 
ple can  get  along  so  comfortably  on  a  thousand  dollars  a  year. 
We  can't  do  it." 

"  I'm  sure  I  try  to  economize  all  I  can,"  returned  Mrs.  Hall, 
sadly,  for  she  felt  that  her  husband's  remark  was  more  than  half 
intended  as  a  reflection  upon  her.  "  I  only  keep  one  girl,  and 
do  nearly  all  my  own*  sewing." 

"  I  don't  blame  you,  Harriet,"  said  Mr.  Hall.  "  I  am  sure  I 
don't.  I  know  you  work  hard — too  hard.  I  often  wish  it  were 
easier  for  you.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  My  salary  is  only  a  thou- 
sand dollars.  And  yet  that  is  all  Hawkins  receives,  and  he 
seems  to  get  along  so  smoothly,  and  even  lays  by,  he  tells  me, 
a  hundred  dollars  a  year." 
27* 


318         SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER. 

"  I  don't  know  how  they  do  it,"  replied  Mrs.  Hall.  "  I  know 
that  Mrs.  Hawkins  doesn't  work  half  as  hard  as  I  do,  though  her 
house  always  looks  in  better  order  than  mine.  They  have  bet- 
ter furniture  than  we  have,  and  I  am  sure  Mrs.  Hawkins'  clothes 
cost  double  what  mine  do.  I  don't  think  it's  my  fault." 

"  I  don't  say  it  is,  Harriet.  I  believe  you  do  your  part  the 
best  you  know  how.  But,  something  must  be  wrong,  some- 
where. Other  people  can  live  very  well  on  a  thousand  dollars, 
while  we  are  always  owing  bills  to  this,  that,  and  the  other  one. 
Here  is  the  quarter's  bill  for  groceries,  amounting  to  sixty-five 
dollars,  and  I  owe  seventy  to  my  tailor  besides.  Then  there  is 
an  unsettled  bill  at  the  provision  store,  of  fifteen  or  twenty  dol- 
lars, besides  the  rent,  bread  bill,  the  milk  bill,  and  I  don't  know 
how  many  other  bills." 

"  I  wish  these  bills  were  not  allowed  to  run  on,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Hall:  "  I'm  sure  it  would  be  a  great  deal  better  to  pay  for 
every  thing  as  we  go  along." 

"  So  it  would,  but  we  havn't  the  money  to  do  it  with.  It 
takes  nearly  my  whole  quarter's  salary,  regularly,  to  pay  off 
the  bills  of  three  months ;  and  then  there  is  no  way  to  live  but 
go  on  trust  for  almost  every  thing  for  three  months  longer.  It's 
a  bad  system,  I  know,  but  there  appears  to  be  no  help  for  it 
just  now." 

And  in  the  full  conviction  that  there  was  no  help  for  it,  Mr. 
Hall  drew  his  quarter's  salary  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars, 
and  went  and  paid  off  bills,  and  borrowed  money-debts,  amount- 
ing to  two  hundred  dollars.  Then  giving  his  wife  ten  dollars 
to  get  little  things  with,  he  started,  under  a  feeling  of  discour- 
agement, on  a  new  quarter,  with  but  forty  dollars  in  his  pocket. 
Although  he  had  paid  two  hundred  dollars  of  debts,  there  was 
almost  an  equal  amount  still  hanging  over  him. 

Mr.  Hall  was  a  clerk  in  a  bank,  where  he  was  engaged  regu- 
larly, from  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  until  about  four  o'clock 
and  sometimes  five  in  the  afternoon.  He  lived  in  a  house  for 
which  he  paid  two  hundred  dollars  a  yeaf,  and  paid  his  tailor 
from  a  hundred  to  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  annually. — He 
carried  a  gold  lever  watch  that  had  cost  eighty  dollars,  and  wore 
a  chain  for  which  he  had  paid  forty.  He  also  indulged  in  one 
or  two  expensive  breastpins,  and  before  his  family  had  become 
as  large  as  at  present,  had  spent  a  good  deal  of  money  on  jew- 
elry for  his  wife.  But  the  dropping  in  of  one  child  after  anoth- 


CAN'T    GET   ALONG.  319 

er,  until  the  number  grew  to  five,  interfered  with  these  little  in- 
dulgences very  materially,  and  called  so  loudly  for  self-denial 
that  the  appeal  could  not  be  entirely  disregarded.  But  the  self- 
denial  was  practised  more  by  Mrs.  Hall — much  more,  than  by 
her  husband.  She  denied  herself  almost  every  thing,  even  suf- 
ficient rest  for  her  overwearied  body,  while  he  went  on,  in  most 
things,  about  the  same  as  he  did  when  he  and  his  wife  paid 
eight  dollars  a  week  for  their  boarding,  and  had  just  the  same 
income  they  had  at  present.  But  let  us  look  more  closely 
into  his  way  of  doing  things,  and  see  if  it  is  not  possible  to  dis- 
cover what  appeared  so  great  a  mystery  to  him. 

On  the  day  after  Mr.  Hall  had  spoken  to  his  wife  so  despon- 
dingly,  he  spent  for  tobacco  and  cigars  eighteen  a-nd  three-quar- 
ter cents ;  for  a  luncheon  and  a  glass  of  wine-sangaree,  twelve 
and  a  half  cents  more ;  and  in  toys  for  the  children,  fifty  cents. 
He  also  bought  a  bottle  of  wine,  for  which  he  paid  seventy-five 
cents.  These  items  amounted  to  one  dollar  and  fifty-six  and  a 
quarter  cents,  in  a  single  day.  On  the  next  day,  he  paid  his 
barber's  bill  for  three  months,  which  was  three  dollars  and  a 
half;  and  his  boot  black's  bill,  which  was  two  dollars. — Lun- 
cheon, and  some  cakes  and  candies  for  the  children,  cost  twen- 
ty-five cents  ;  and  a  very  pretty  paper-folder  that  struck  his 
fancy,  the  trifle  of  twenty-five  cents  more.  Here  were  six  dol- 
lars for  the  second  day,  nearly  all  of  which  might  have  been 
saved  if  he  had  shaved  himself  and  brushed  his  own  boots,  to  do 
either  of  which  would  have  been  far  more  honorable,  genteel  and 
praiseworthy,  than  to  indulge  in  the  luxury  of  a  barber  and  a 
boot-black,  and  let  his  wife  work  herself  half  to  death.  On  the 
third  day  he  hired  a  chaise  and  rode  out  writh  his  family  after  he 
had  left  bank  in  the  afternoon.  The  chaise  hire  was  two  dol- 
lars, and  toll-gates  and  refreshments  for  all,  fifty  cents  more. 
Already,  in  luncheon,  cigars,  and  one  or  two  little  matters,  a 
half-dollar  had  been  expended  by  Mr.  Hall  in  the  forepart  of 
the  day,  so  that,  on  the  third  day  of  the  week,  three  dollars  were 
expended  unnecessarily.  During  this  time,  for  marketing,  shoes 
for  one  or  two  of  the  children,  and  sundry  expenses  incident  to 
a  large  family,  six  dollars  melted  from  his  hands. 

On  the  evening  after  the  ride,  Mr.  Hall  took  out  his  pocket- 
book  and  counted  his  money.  To  his  utter  astonishment,  and 
almost  dismay,  he  found  that  he  had  only  twenty-three  dollars 
and  a  half.  He  counted  it  over  and  over  again,  but  could  not 


SKETCHES    OF    LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 


make  it  a  cent  more.  Three  days  before  he  had  forty  dollars. 
Where  could  sixteen  and  a  half  have  flown  to  ?  He  had  never 
spent  it ;  that,  to  his  mind,  was  perfectly  clear. 

"  Have  you  taken  any  money  out  of  my  pocket-book  ?"  he 
asked  of  his  wife. 

"  No,"  was  replied. 

"  Well,  something's  gone  with  about  ten  dollars.  I  have  but 
twenty-three  and  a  half,  and  I  had  forty  two  or  three  days  ago. 
Of  course,  I  havn't  spent  sixteen  dollars  and  over  in  three  days." 

"  Certainly  not.  But  where  can  it  have  gone  ?  Have  you 
counted  right  ?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  And  Mr.  Hall  went  over  the  money  again  to 
see  if  there  were  no  mistake. 

"  It's  too  true.     I  have  but  twenty-three  dollars  and  a  half." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  havn't  spent  it  for  something  ?"  suggested 
Mrs.  Hall.  "  How  else  could  it  have  gone  ?" 

"  Some  one  must  have  given  me  wrong  change.  I  gave  the 
carriage-driver  a  five  dollar  bill.  Let  me  see.  What  change 
did  he  give  me  ?  It  was  a  note,  and  I  took  it  for  three  dollars. 

Mr.  Hall  ran  over  the  money  in  his  pocket-book. 

"  Yes,  here's  a  three  dollar  bill.  He  gave  me  the  right 
change." 

Mr.  Hall's  mind  was  in  great  perplexity.  His  income  was 
small  enough  compared  to  his  expenses,  and,  therefore,  to  lose 
eight  or  ten  dollars,  he  felt  to  be  no  trifling  matter. 

"  Suppose  you  count  up  what  you  have  spent  ?"  suggested 
Mrs.  Hall,  "  and  see  how  much  it  is,  exactly.  Perhaps  you  have 
laid  out  more  than  you  think  for." 

"  I've  not  laid  out  half  of  sixteen  dollars.  But  we  will  count 
up." 

In  the  first  place  the  spendings  for  marketing,  shoes,  and  the 
sundries  that  went  into  the  family,  were  recalled  with  some  effort, 
and  the  sum  of  six  dollars  finally  made  out. 

"  That's  only  six  dollars  you  see,"  remarked  Mr.  Hall,  "  lea- 
ving a  deficiency  of  ten  dollars  and  a  half." 

"  But  you  forget  the  carriage  hire. 

"  True.     That  was  two  dollars — making  eight  dollars." 

"  And  you  know  you  bought  milk  and  cakes  for  the  children, 
and  paid  the  toll-keeper." 

"  So  I  did.  Let  me  see  how  much  I  paid  exactly.  Just  fifty 
cents  to  a  fraction." 


CAN'T  GET  ALONG.  321 

"  Then  we  have  eight  dollars  and  fifty  cents  accounted  for, 
which  leaves  eight  dollars  deficient. — Think,  now,  what  you 
spent  for  yourself,  yesterday  and  the  day  before." 

"  Not  eight  dollars  nor  eighty  cents.  But  let  me  see.  There 
is  my  luncheon  every  day,  for  three  days — just  thirty-seven  and 
a  half  cents.  True  !  And  there  is  the  bottle  of  wine  ;  I'd  for- 
gotten that — seventy-five  cents.  Yes,  and  now  I  remember  I 
paid  half  a  dollar  for  the  toys  I  bought  the  children." 

"  So  much  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  had  to  buy  for  all  of  them,  and  even  cheap  toys, 
where  you  have  to  get  so  many  of  them,  count  up.  But,  we 
must  indulge  the  children,  sometimes.  I  have  spent,  also,  for 
cigars  and  tobacco,  the  trifle  of  thirty-one  cents,  and  for  a  paper 
folder  a  quarter.  And  in  cakes  and  candies  for  the  children  I 
have  spent,  may  be,  a  shilling.  Let  me  see  how  much  all  these 
amount  to." 

The  items  were  soon  summed  up,  and  the  product  was  two 
dollars  and  nearly  a  half. 

"  That,  you  see,  reduces  it  to  five  dollars  and  a  half,"  said 
Mrs.  Hall. 

"  So  it  does,"  remarked  the  husband.  "  How  money  does 
slip  through  one's  fingers !  I  would'nt  have  believed  it.  But 
where  is  the  balance  ?  Where  are  the  five  dollars  and  a  half? 
Even  that  is  too  much  to  loose.  Let  me  see." 

Mr.  Hall  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  his  thumb  and  fin- 
ger gave  a  sharp  crack,  and  he  exclaimed — 

"  Yes  !  That's  it !  I  paid  my  barber's  and  my  boot  black's 
bills,  which  added  together  make  just  five  dollars  and  a  half. 
Well,  I  declare !  It  is  astonishing !  Would  any  one  have 
thought  it  ?  How  money  does  go !  I  wish  I  could  never  see  a 
dollar !  Money  melts  out  of  my  pockets  like  snow  before  the 
fire.  I  wish,  in  my  heart,  you  would  take  it  and  see  if  you  can 
make  it  go  any  farther  than  I  do."' 

Mrs.  Hall  did  not  reply  for  some  moments,  and  then  she  said — 

"  I  will  do  so,  provided  you  let  me  manage  things  in  my  own 
way  for  a  year ;  and,  also,  provided  that  you  will  be  content 
with  five  dollars  a  quarter  for  your  tobacco  and  segars ;  also 
provided,  that  you  will  shave  yourself  and  black  your  own  boots 
or  let  me  do  it  for  you  ;  and  also  take  your  luncheon  from  home 
instead  of  buying  it ;  by  all  of  which  about  sixty  dollars  a  year 
can  be  saved." 


322  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  Sixty  dollars !     It  don't  cost  half  of  that  sum,  Harriet." 

"  Count  it  up  for  yourself,  Felix.  Why,  a  shilling  a  day  for 
lunch  amounts  to  thirty-seven  dollars  a  year." 

"  So  it  does  ?  How  little  things  do  count  up.  Well,  wife, 
if  you'll  take  hold  in  good  earnest,  I'll  do  just  as  you  say  for  one 
year,  and  if  you  bring  down  the  cost  of  living  as  much  as  a 
hundred  dollars,  I  will  let  you  manage  money  matters  ever 
after." 

"  If  I  don't  bring  it  down  three  hundred  dollars,  I  am  mista- 
ken," replied  Mrs.  Hall,  in  a  confident  tone  ;  for  light  had  sud- 
denly broken  into  her  mind.  The  account  which  her  husband 
had  given  of  three  days'  dispensation  of  money,  under  his  sys- 
tem, showed  her  where  the  leak  was. 

"  Here  are  twenty  dollars  to  begin  with,  all  that  I  have  left 
from  my  last  quarter's  salary,  after  keeping  three  dollars  and  a 
half  for  my  tobacco  and  segars  during  the  next  three  months. 
When  it  is  gone,  I  will  borrow  as  much  as  you  want  to  carry 
you  on  until  I  can  draw  more  money." 

At  the  rate  Hill  was  going  on,  it  would  have  taken  little  over 
a  week  to  have  entirely  emptied  his  pocket-book  ;  but  it  was  a 
month  before  his  wife  asked  for  a  fresh  supply. 

One  of  Mrs.  Hall's  first  acts  was  to  buy  blacking  and  brush- 
es, and  discharge  the  boot-black.  For  a  week  she  brushed  her 
husband's  boots,  every  morning,  before  he  discovered  that  the 
boot-black  had  been  dismissed  ;  then  he  accidentally  caught  her 
in  the  act  of  brightening  his  leather  understandings,  very  great- 
ly to  his  surprise.  After  that,  he  shaved  himself  and  blacked 
his  own  boots  without  feeling  himself  in  the  least  degraded 
thereby. 

Five  dollars  a  quarter  for  tobacco,  cigars,  and  other  little  nick- 
nackeries,  Mr.  Hall  found  to  be  rather  a  limited  income  ;  but, 
as  he  had  agreed  to  meet  his  extra  expenses  with  this  sum,  he 
felt  some  pride  in  doing  so.  In  order  to  accomplish  it,  however, 
he  had  to  abate  many  glasses  of  wine  and  mineral  water,  and 
limit  himself  to  a  certain  number  of  segars  daily. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  quarter,  Mrs.  Hall  received  one  hun- 
dred and  seventy  dollars  from  her  husband.  Eighty  dollars  she 
had  received  before,  and  as  this  had  been  borrowed  by  her  hus- 
band, he  kept  that  amount  from  his  three  months'  salary  in  or- 
der to  pay  it  bacfc. 

By  extra  exertions,  and  a  system  of  almost  pinching  economy, 


CAN'T  GET  ALONG.  323 

Mrs.  Hall  managed  to  pay  the  rent  and  a  few  small  bills,  and 
get  through  without  asking  her  husband  for  a  cent  more  ;  so  that 
when  the  salary  became  due  again  she  had  a  much  larger  sum 
to  start  with.  From  that  time  not  even  a  baker's  bill  was  per- 
mitted to  accumulate  ;  and  her  milk  bill  was  settled  once  a 
week. 

Mr.  Hall  sometimes  complained  a  little  at  his  wife's  "  short 
commons,"  as  he  called  them,  and  at  being  cut  off  from  all 
pleasure-taking,  but  she  consoled  him  by  telling  him,  good  hu- 
moredly,  to  wait  awhile;  that  there  was  a  good  time  coming. 

The  year  for  which  Mrs.  Hall  had  undertaken  to  manage  af- 
fairs at  last  came  to  a  close,  and  one  evening  she  said  to  her 
husband — 

"  Here  are  my  accounts  for  the  year.  They  are  not  very 
neatly  kept,  but  I  presume  you  will  find  all  correct." 

"  Accounts !     Have  you  kept  accounts  ?"  asked  Mr.  Hall. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  to  a  penny." 

"  Well,  how  stands  the  balance  ?" 

"  Something  in  our  favor,  I  think.  There  isn't  a  cent  owed 
any  where,  except  the  balance  of  your  tailor's  bill,  and  you  know 
I  had  over  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  to  pay  when  I  took  the 
management  of  things." 

"  Possible  !"  said  Mr.  Hall,  opening  his  eyes. 

"  Yes ;  and,  what  is  better,  I  have  about  fifty  dollars  on  hand." 

« Incredible !" 

"  It  is  true." 

"  But  how  in  the  world  did  you  do  it?" 

"  Not  by  starving  you  all,  you  will  admit." 

"  No,  certainly, — we  have  had  plenty  of  good,  wholesome 
food  to  eat ;  though  I  must  own  to  thinking,  sometimes,  that  you 
indulged  us  in  little  seasonable  delicacies  rather  sparingly." 

"  It  had  to  be  done,  or  else  I  couldn't  have  got  along  on  the 
reduced  income  of  this  year — reduced  by  the  necessity  of  paying 
off  so  many  old  bills."  ' 

"  But  how  have  you  done  it,  Harriet  ?  You  havn't  given  me 
the  affirmative  yet." 

"  By  following  this  simple  rule,  Felix ;  never  to  buy  any  thing 
that  was  not  wanted,  and  being  very  careful,  when  a  want  pre- 
sented itself,  to  see  whether  it  were  real  or  imaginary.  Hereafter 
I  hope  you  will  follow  the  same  rule,  and  if  you  do,  you  can  keep 
the  family  on  as  little  as  I  have  done." 


324  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

"Thank  you,  Harriet!"  returned  Mr.  Hall,  smiling;  "but  I 
believe  I  won't  supersede  your  administration  of  affairs ;  although 
I  shall  insist  upon  one  thing ;  and  it  is  that  you  get  a  stout  girl 
of  thirteen  or  fourteen  to  assist  you.  You  are  working  too 
hard." 

"  Wait  until  next  year." 

"  No.  It  must  be  done  now.  We  can  afford  it.  But,  if  you 
think  we  can't,  I  will  give  up  my  tobacco  and  segars  in  order  to 
help  meet  the  extra  expense." 

"  Oh,  no.     I  won't  ask  that  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Hall. 

"  Then  you  must  get  the  extra  help." 

"  Very  well,  if  you  insist  so  strongly  upon  it,  I  suppose  it 
must  be  done." 

And  it  was  done.  Three  or  four  years  have  passed.  Mr. 
Hall  is  quite  as  well  dressed  as  before,  and  his  wife  much  bet- 
ter. Several  articles  of  new  furniture  have  been  added  to  their 
house.  Mrs.  Hall  keeps  a  cook  and  a  girl  to  help  about,  and 
has  a  much  more  cheerful  and  less  broken-down  appearance. 
She  doesn't  work  over  half  as  hard  as  she  did.  Add  to  all 
this  the  fact  that  there  is  not  a  cent  owed  any  where,  and  from 
one  to  two  hundred  dollars  always  lying  by,  and  the  reader  will 
agree  with  Mr.  Hall,  who  has  quite  changed  his  mind  on  the 
subject,  that  a  man  CAN  get  along  on  a  thousand  dollars  ;  that 
is,  if  he  have  the  right  kind  of  a  wife,  and  is  willing  to  let  her 
manage  things  with  prudence  and  economy. 


A  STAGE-COACH  ADVENTURE'. 


Henry  Bedford,  a  young  merchant,  residing  in  one  of  the 
Western  cities,  came  on  to  the  East,  as  usual,  in  the  summer 
of  183-,  to  purchase  his  fall  and  winter  supply  of  goods.  A 
few  days  after  his  domestication  at  the  American  Hotel,  in  New 
York,  he  observed  a  young  lady  in  one  of  the  parlors  who  par- 
ticularly struck*  his  fancy.  On  inquipy,  he  learned  that  she  came 

from  Ohio,  and  was  the  daughter  of  Judge  T ,  who  had 

gone  to  Washington  on  some  business  with  the  Government,  and 
expected  to  remain  at  the  capital  for  a  week  or  ten  days.     So 

pleased  was  Bedford  with  Miss  Cordelia  T that  he  could 

not  rest  until  he  had  managed  to  obtain  an  introduction. 

The  young  lady  proved  even  more  attractive  than  Bedford, 
in  his  imagination,  had  pictured  her  to  be,  when  she  first  moved 
before  him  as  a  lovely  stranger.  So  much  pleased  with  her  was 
he,  that  before  he  had  basked  in  the  light  of  her  sunny  counte- 
nance an  hour,  he  was  decidedly  in  love ;  and  his  evident  ad- 
miration of  the  fair  young  creature  made  serious  inroads  upon 
the  tender  regions  about  her  heart.  What  particularly  pleased 
Bedford  was  the  style  of  the  lady.  She  was  not  attired  gaudily, 
nor  at  all  overloaded  with  ornament;  but,  still,  there  was 
something  peculiar,  not  to  say  unique  and  striking,  in  her  mode 
of  dress.  Her  hair,  of  which  she  had  a  profusion,  was  as  smooth 
and  glossy  as  brush  could  make  it ;  and,  about  her  sweet  young 
face,  and  on  her  graceful,  snowy  neck,  it  fell  with  a  voluptuous 
freedom  that  was  absolutely  bewitching.  With  each  movement 
of  her  head,  these  silken  curls  seemed  to  catch  the  smile  that 
ever  lit  up  her  face  with  a  beautiful  radiance.  It  is  hardly  a 
matter  of  wonder  that  Henry  Bedford  lost  his  heart. 

28  325 


326  SKETCHES    OF  LITE   AND    CHARACTER. 

A  few  days  only  could  the  young  man  spend  with  this  charm- 
ing creature.  Business  called  him  to  Boston,  and  he  had  to 

leave  her.     Absence  invested  Cordelia  T with  new  charms, 

and  made  him  more  than  ever  in  love  with  her.  To  a  fellow*- 
townsman  and  young  merchant  whom  he  met  in  Boston  on  bus- 
iness, he  spoke  of  Cordelia  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a  lover, 
and  s'aid  that,  take  her  all  in  all,  she  was  the  sweetest  girl  it  had 
so  far,  been  his  fortune  to  meet. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  her  father  ?"  inquired  the  young  man. 

«  No." 

«  He's  a  hard  old  Christian." 

"  A  rough  exterior  often  covers  a  generous  nature." 

«  True." 

"  I  cannot  believe  that  the  father  of  so  lovely  a  girl  can  have 
a  bad  heart." 

"  Oh !  As  to  having  a  bad  heart,  I  wouldn't  say  that.  But 
I  doubt  if  he  possesses  many  kind  impulses,  or  gentle  feelings. 
He  is  known  to  all  as  a  hard  character,  and  his  face  does  not, 
in  the  least,  belie  the  reputation." 

"  Well,  all  I  have  to  say  is,  that  let  Judge  T be  what 

he  may,  he  has  a  charming  daughter,  and  no  mistake ;  and  I 
am  going  to  get  away  from  here  just  as  quickly  as  possible,  in 
order  to  spend  a  day  or  two  with  her  in  New  York  before  leav- 
ing for  the  West ;  and,  if  I  do  not  lay  my  heart  at  her  feet  be- 
fore we  separate,  it  will  be  because  I  change  my  mind  very 
much  from  what  it  is  at  present." 

"  You  are  smitten,  sure  enough  !" 

"  And  so  would  you  have  been  if  you  had  met  this  lovely  girl." 

"  May  be  so ;  though  I  rather  doubt  your  conclusion.  I  am 
not  usually  won  by  every  pretty  face  that  comes  along." 

"  Nor  I.  This,  let  me  tell  you,  is  no  mere  pretty  face.  The 
whole  air,  manner,  and  style  of  the  girl,  to  say  nothing  of  her 
accomplishments,  make  up  a  whole  of  beauty  and  grace  that 
charm  irresistibly." 

"  Of  all  that  I  will  judge  for  myself  when  I  meet  the  young 
lady  in  New  York,  if  she  is  there  when  I  pass  through,  or  at 
your  residence  when  she  becomes  Mrs.  Bedford." 

"  Which,  jesting  aside,  is  an  event  most  likely  to  occur." 

"  Ha !  ha !"  laughed  the  young  friend  of  Bedford.  "  You  are 
fairly  caught,  sure  enough  !  I  only  hope  the  meshes  may  prove 
strong  enough  to  hold  you." 


A   STAGE-COACH   ADVENTURE.  327 

As  soon  as  Bedford  could  arrange  his  business  in  Boston,  he 
went  back  to  New  York,  eager  to  meet  the  young  lady  who  had 
robbed  him  of  his  heart.  But  the  bird  had  flown.  Judge 

T had  arrived  at  the  American  the  day  after  Bedford  left 

Ne\V  York,  and  was  now,  so  the  young  man  learned,  on  his  way 
home  to  the  West,  in  company  with  his  beautiful  daughter.  Had 
it  not  been  that  his  business  made  it  absolutely  necessary  for  him 
to  remain  in  New  York  several  days  longer,  Bedford  would  have 
started  for  Philadelphia  by  the  first  line,  and  made  an  effort  to 
overtake  the  lady  ;  but  business  was  imperative  and  could  not 
be  neglected  ;  and  so  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  submit,  with  the 
best  possible  grace,  to  what  could  not  be  helped. 

It  was  nearly  a  week  after  Judge  T and  his  daughter 

left  New  York,  before  Bedford  turned  his  face  homeward.  At 
Baltimore  he  took  his  passage  for  Wheeling.  The  railroad  was 
then  only  completed  a  distance  of  sixty  miles,  and  had  its  ter- 
minus at  Fredericktown,  w'here  the  line  of  stages  began.  The  cars 
started  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  were  drawn  by  horses. 
It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  the  passengers  arrived 
at  Fredericktown,  where  they  crowded'into  coaches  and  pushed  on 
for  Hagerstown,  which  they  reached  in  time  for  breakfast.  Bed- 
ford's traveling  companion  was  the  young  merchant  he  had  met 
in  Boston. 

Nothing  worthy  of  note  occurred  during  the  first  day's  ride. 
Cumberland  was  reached  on  the  morning  of  the  second  day,  the 
travelers  not  much  improved  either  in  their  looks  or  feelings  by 
two  nights'  loss  of  rest.  After  washing  the  dust  from  their  faces, 
and  eating  with  no  very  alarming  appetites  the  breakfast  that 
was  prepared  for  them,  they  were  again  packed  into  the  narrow 
coaches,  and  indulged  with  an  airing  among  the  mountains. 
By  the  succeeding  night,  Bedford  felt  as  if  he  did  not  care  for 
any  body  or  any  thing.  He  had  put  on,  when  he  left  Baltimore, 
a  suit  of  old  clothes  that  were  not  to  be  injured  either  by  rub- 
bing or  dust,  and  these  had  gained  nothing  in  appearance  by  the 
journey.  One  of  the  elbows  of  his  coat  was  out,  and  his  pan- 
taloons looked  as  if  they  had  done  service  in  hod-carrying,  or 
some  other  work  equally  trying  to  a  pair  of  inexpressibles.  As 
for  his  beard,  it  had  not  known  the  presence  of  a  razor  for  two 
days,  and  his  hair  looked  as  if  it  had  never  been  acquainted  with 
a  cornb.  His  soiled  shirt  collar  was  concealed  beneath  a  rusty, 
black  silk  handkerchief,  that  was  twisted  about  his  neck  more. 


328  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

like  a  rag  than  a  cravat.  Take  him  all  in  all,  he  looked  the 
vagabond  so  completely  that  his  friend  could  not  help  jesting 
with  him  on  his  appearance. 

•'I  declare,  Harry!"  said  the  latter,  as  they  left  the  coach, 
and  entered  the  bar-room  of  a  tavern  where  they  were  to  take 
SUpper — "  you  do  cut  a  shocking  figure.  You're  hardly  fit  for 
decent  company." 

"  The  man's  a  man  for  a'  that,"  replied  Bedford,  laughing. 
"  I'm  as  good  as  if  I  were  dressed  in  a  new  suit  of  French  broad- 
cloth." 

"  The  beautiful  Miss  T might  not  think  so,  were  she  to 

get  a  peep  at  you  just  now." 

"  Oh,  dear  !"  And  Bedford  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  But, 
thank  fortune  !  there  is  no  danger  of  that.  She's  far  beyond 
these  regions." 

The  ting-a-ling-a-ling  of  the  supper  bell  at  this  moment 
announced  the  fact  that  their  host  of  the  stage  house  was  ready 
with  his  good  cheer,  and  they  obeyed  the  summons  without 
ceremony.  By  the  time  the  hungry  passengers  had  laid  in  a 
sufficient  supply  of  coffee,  toast  and  "  chicken  fixins, '  the  dri- 
ver's horn  was  heard,  and  they  once  more  contracted  their  bo- 
dies within  the  riding  machine  where  they  were  to  spend  the 
night,  but  not  in  gentle  sleep.  Two  of  the  passengers  were  not 
going  farther  than  Brownsville,  and  their  fellow-travelers  were 
congratulating  themselves  on  the  relief  all  would  experience 
when  there  were  but  seven  instead  of  nine  inside.  It  was  mid- 
night when  this  point  in  the  journey  was  reached.  After  wait- 
ing for  change  of  horses,  the  seven  passengers,  who  were  to  con- 
tinue on  as  far  as  Wheeling,  spread  themselves  out  in  the  stage- 
coach, and  gave  utterance  to  sundry  expressions  of  pleasure  at 
the  prospect  of  not  being  so  much  crowded  as  they  had  been 
since  leaving  Fredericktown.  But,  alas  for  the  uncertainty  ofc 
all  human  anticipations  !  Just  as  the  drivers  of  the  four  coaches 
that  were  running  on  the  line  were  about  mounting  their  boxes, 
the  stage  agent  announced  that  there  were  two  passengers  in  the 
house  who  must  go  on. 

"  No  room  here  !"  was  instantly  heard  issuing  from  each  of 
the  coaches. 

"  There  is  room  somewhere,"  returned  the  agent,  "  for  two 
passengers  have  stopped  at  Brownsville." 

Just  at  this  moment  a  man  and  a  woman  emerged  from  the 
house. 


A   STAGE-COACH   ADVENTURE.  329 

"Go  ahead,  driver!  No  room  in  this  coach,"  cried  Bed- 
ford, in  a  petulant  voice,  leaning  out  of  the  window.  "  We're 
crowded  to  death  now." 

But  the  agent  was  not  to  be  outwitted  after  that  fashion. 
"  How  many  inside  here  ?"  he  asked,  opening  a  coach  door. 

"All  full.     Nine  inside,"  was  answered. 

"  Three — six — nine.  All  right  here.  Go  ahead,  driver  !" 
The  driver's  long  whip  cracked  like  a  pistol  in  the  still  night 
air,  and  away  his  horse  dashed  at  full  speed. 

The  next  coach,  and  then  the  next  were  in  like  manner 
examined,  and  sent  on  their  journey.  The  last  coach  was  the 
one  in  which  Bedford  was  a  passenger. 

"  All  full  here,"  said  several  voices,  as  the  agent  came  to  the 
door  ;  and  the  inmates  spread  themselves  out  as  wide  as  possi- 
ble. But  the  eyes  of  that  functionary  could  not  be  deceived ; 
even  though  it  were  night. 

"  Three — five — only  seven,"  said  he,  in  a  decided,  matter- 
of-fact  voice.  "  Come,  here's  room." 

Bedford,  with  two  others,  occupied  the  back  seat. 

"  Will  one  of  the  gentlemen  on  the  back  seat  change,  and 
give  the  lady  a  place  there  ?"  said  the  agent. 

"  I  shall  not  move,"  said  Bedford,  who  sat  next  the  door,  and 
in  a  voice  loud  enough  to  be  plainly  heard. 

The  other  two  men  said  nothing,  but  kept  their  places  firm- 
ly. The  lady  was,  by  this  time,  half  way  in  the  coach,  but  as 
neither  of  the  occupants  of  the  back  seat  showed  any  disposi- 
tion to  abdicate  in  her  favor,  she  was  obliged  to  content  herself 
on  the  middle  seat,  which  was,  in  reality,  if  she  had  known  it, 
by  far  the  most  comfortable.  The  man  came  in  after  her,  grum- 
bling, or  rather,  growling,  in  a  low,  defiant,  bull-dog  sort  of 
way.  I 

"  No  room  !"  he  muttered,  as  he  settled  himself  down  on  the 
front  seat,  and  pressed  out  his  elbows  against  the  two  passen- 
gers who  had  compelled  him  to  take  the  place  between  them — 
•'  There's  hardly  room  enough  in  the  world  for  some  people." 

The  lady  did  not  seem  in  a  more  amiable  mood  than  her  com- 
panion. Particularly  was  she  displeased  at  the  want  of  cour- 
tesy shown  in  not  giving  her  the  back  seat,  and,  in  answer  to 
some  reference  made  to  it  by  the  agent,  before  he  closed  the 
coach  door,  she  said  in  a  tone  distinct  enough  to  be  heard,  that 
she  presumed  they — meaning  the  occupants  of  the  seat  she  had 
28* 


330  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

expected  to  obtain — were  foreigners,  as  she  had  never  known 
Americans  to  treat  a  lady  with  discourtesy  or  want  of  atten- 
tion. Bedford  felt  chafed  at  this,  and  he  could  with  difficulty 
restrain  himself  from  uttering  some  retort  involving  a  rebuke  of 
American  ladies  for  the  selfish  and  exacting  spirit  they  too  often 
manifest  toward  gentlemen. 

"  I  wish  you  a  pleasant  ride  to  Wheeling,"  said  the  agent,  as 
he  closed  the  door. 

"  Thank  you,"  returned  the  lady.  "  No  doubt  it  will  be  as 
pleasant  as  could  be  expected  under  the  circumstances." 

Particular  emphasis  was  thrown  on  the  last  part  of  the  sen- 
tence. 

"  As  pleasant  as  you  deserve,"  grumbled  her  companion  on 
the  front  seat.  "  Wouldn't  have  been  much  sorry  if  the  stage 
had  been  full  of  Hottentots  or  Blackfeet  Indians.  It'll  teach  you 
a  lesson  on  the  subject  of  giving  up  a  good  place  in  a  coach 
for  a  mere  trifle.  After  waiting  two  days  for  a  chance  to  get 
on,  you  might  put  up  with  a  seat  on  the  box  and  think  yourself 
well  off." 

"  A  sick  headache  is  no  trifle,"  returned  the  lady,  fretfully. 

"  Though  no  killing  matter.  I've  ridden  a  hundred  miles 
with  a  broken  leg.  But  women  are  women  all  the  world  over. 
That's  my  experience." 

"  Would  you  have  them  men  ?"  inquired  the  lady,  pertly. 

"No,  Miss  Saucebox!"  was  quickly  retorted.  "But  I'd 
have  them  show  at  least  a  small  portion  of  reason  and  fortitude." 

This  rather  free  speech  hurt  the  lady  a  little.  The  tone  in 
which  it  was  given  clearly  enough  showed  the  relation  of  the 
parties  to  be  that  of  father  and  daughter.  An  indistinct  reply 
from  the  latter  closed  the  conversation,  for,  just  at  that  mo- 
ment, the  baggage  of  the  two  intruders  having  been  securely 
buckled  up  in  the  boot,  the  driver  cracked  his  whip,  and  the 
passengers,  dissatisfied  with  themselves  and  each  other,  rolled 
away  on  their  midnight  journey. 

The  lady  had  her  seat  immediately  in  front  of  Bedford,  who 
felt  towards  her  a  strong  repugnance.  For  this  there  were  two 
reasons ;  he  had  failed  to  treat  her  with  courtesy,  and  she  had, 
plainly  enough,  resented  his  conduct.  He  was,  therefore,  dis- 
satisfied with  himself  and  offended  with  her — causes  fully  suffi- 
cient to  produce  a  feeling  of  dislike. 

"A  fine  specimen  of  a  lady!"  was  his  mental  exclamation, 


A   STAGE-COACH    ADVENTURE.  331 

as  he  sunk  back  in  his  seat,  drew  his  cap  over  his  eyes,  and 
prepared  to  get  a  little  semi-oblivion,  if  not  positive  sleep.  For 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  lady  be- 
fore him  ;  and,  most  heartily  did  he  wish  her  at  the  North  Pole, 
or  any  where  else  so  that  she  was  not  in  his  immediate  vicinity. 
At  last  his  mental  impressions  became  less  and  less  distinct,  and 
he  was  beginning  to  have  something  like  pleasant,  half  waking 
dreams,  when  he  was  aroused  by  the  sweeping  of  something 
across  his  face ;  which  proved  to  be  the  barege  veil  of  the  lady 
before  him.  Said  lady's  veil  had  been  thrown  loosely  over  the 
crown  of  her  bonnet ;  and  as  the  lady  had  forgotten  her  troubles 
in  a  little  doze,  and  there  being  nothing  to  support  her  head,  that 
member  of  her  body,  as  the  stage  made  a  jolt,  had  been  sud- 
denly jerked  backward,  and  the  veil  flung  into  the  face  of  the 
young  merchant. 

"  Ugh  !  what's  that  ?"  fell  from  Bedford's  lips,  as,  only  half 
conscious  touching  the  cause  of  annoyance,  he  pushed  the  veil 
from  his  face,  and,  without  intending  to  do  so,  gave  the  head 
and  bonnet  that  had  inclined  themselves  rather  nearer  than  was 
exactly  agreeable,  considering  who  was  their  owner,  something 
of  a  rude  repulse. 

What  the  lady  said  in  resenting  this  rough  treatment  Bedford's 
ears  did  not  distinguish.  Judging  from  the  tone  of  her  voice, 
he  naturally  enough  concluded  that  it  was  nothing  very  compli- 
mentary. Of  course,  he  felt  for  her  a  still  stronger  dislike — for 
he  had  acted  toward  her  again  in  an  ungentlemanly  manner,  and 
she  had  resented  it. 

No  farther  acts  of  antagonism  occurred  during  the  night. 
When  the  gray  light  of  morning  began  to  steal  slowly  in  at 
the  coach  windows,  it  found  all  the  passengers  in  a  state  of 
half-conscious,  uncomfortable  repose.  Bedford  was  crouched 
down  in  a  corner  of  the  vehicle,  with  his  face  upon  his  bosom, 
and  the  lady  before  him  sat  with  her  head  thrown  so  far  back 
that  it  was  almost  a  wonder  that  it  did  not  break  off  with  each 
heavy  jerk  of  the  coach,  as  it  dashed  down  the  rough  hill  side 
road.  To  add  to  the  graceful  ease  of  her  position,  her  mouth 
had  fallen  open  ;  and,  to  give  an  appropriate  effect  to  the  whole 
picture,  certain  sounds  were  issuing  from  her  throat  and  nostrils 
that  did  not  exactly  remind  Bedford,  whom  daylight  first  aroused, 
of  the  warblings  of  Mrs.  Wood,  whom  he  had  heard  in  Sonnam  i 
bula  and  Cindrella  only  a  week  before. 


332  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

The  particular  view  which  the  young  man  first  obtained  of  his 
fair  traveling  companion,  was  not  a  very  flattering  one.  Wheth- 
er she  were  young  or  old,  it  was  rather  difficult  to  make  out. 
That  she  was  not  particularly  beautiful,  was  readily  concluded 
at  the  first  glance.  As  to  her  style  of  person  and  habilaments, 
as  far  as  these  could  be  seen,  they  indicated  to  the  young  man  a 
vulgar  mind.  She  had  on  a  nankin  riding-dress,  which  looked 
soiled  and  disordered.  Her  bonnet  was  of  straw,  broken  in  sev- 
eral places,  and  a  faded  green  veil  was  drawn  over  it,  apparent- 
ly as  much  to  conceal  defects  as  to  shield  the  countenance  of 
the  owner.  Massess  of  uncombed  hair  lay  about  her  face  in 
any  thing  but  graceful  luxuriance.  For  at  least  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  the  lady  did  not  change  her  position.  Long  before  that 
time  expired,  Bedford  had  turned  his  eyes  from  her  with  a  feel- 
ing of  disgust,  and  was  observing  the  bold  and  romantic  scene- 
ry which  the  newly  risen  sun  revealed  to  his  eyes. 

While  most  of  the  passengers  still  slept,  the  driver  reined  up 
his  horses  at  the  regular  changing  place,  and  as  the  coach  stop- 
ped, a  man  put  his  head  in  at  the  window,  and  called  out  in  a 
quick  voice — 

"  Breakfast  here,  gentlemen  !" 

Upon  this  announcement  there  was  a  general  movement  in- 
side, and  in  as  short  a  period  of  time  as  it  could  well  be  done, 
the  hungry  passengers  tumbled  themselves  out,  each  so  intent  on 
stretching  his  cramped  limbs,  on  reaching  the  ground,  as  scarce- 
ly to  notice  his  companions  in  suffering.  WThen  Bedford  thought 
of  the  lady  who  had  come  in  at  Brownsville,  and  looked  up  in 
order  to  take  an  unobstructed  observation,  she  was  not  to  be 
seen,  having  passed  into  the  house. 

Hurried  ablutions  were  performed  by  the  travelers  prepara- 
tory to  going  into  the  breakfast-room.  No  brushes  nor  combs 
being  supplied,  those  who  did  not  possess  either  of  these  neces- 
sary articles  of  the  toilet,  had  to  leave  their  hair  in  the  rough, 
and  rough  enough  was  the  state  in  which  some  heads  remained. 
Among  these,  that  of  Bedford  was  conspicuous.  His  was  not 
naturally  a  soft  and  silky  poll — and  some  recent  banberous  oper- 
ations having  brought  it  down  to  about  the  length  of  a  hog's 
bristles,  it  presented  a  somewhat  similar  appearance,  with  only 
this  difference. — While  a  hog's  bristles  lie  all  in  one  direction, 
his,  to  use  rather  an  obscure  vulgarism,  "  stood  seven  ways  for 
Sunday." 


A    STAGE-COACH    ADVENTURE.  333 

"  Well,  you  are  a  beauty !"  said  Bedford's  companion,  as  the 
two  young  men  stood  in  the  bar-room,  awaiting  the  breakfast 
bell. 

"  What's  the  matter?"  inquired  Bedford,  affecting  surprise.    * 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  the  other.  "The  matter?  Why,  you 
look  like  the  very  Old  Boy !  Just  take  a  glance  at  yourself  in 
that  glass." 

"  No,  thank  you  !  I'm  afraid  that,  like  a  certain  mythologi- 
cal notable,  I  might  fall  in  love  with  myself." 

The  sudden  ringing  of  a  bell  caused  both  to  turn  toward  the 
door  leading  into  the  passage  by  which  they  were  to  reach  the 
breakfast  room.  As  they  were  going  through  the  door,  the 
man  who  had  got  in  at  Brownsville  went  by  with  the  lady  on  his 
arm. 

"  Are  those  our  traveling  companions  ?"  asked  the  young  man, 
with  some  earnestness  of  manner. 

"  Yes.     Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  Are  you  certain  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  Bedford.  "  I  shall  never  forget  that  bon- 
net and  that  hair !" 

"  The  man  is  Judge  T !" 

"  Oh,  never !" 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  so  !  No  one  who  has  seen  that  nose,  mouth 
and  chin  can  ever  forget  them." 

"  Judge  T ?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  no  mistake  !  And  the  lady  is,  of  course,  the 
charming  daughter  about  whom  you  have  had  so  much  to  say." 

By  this  time  the  two  young  men  were  in  the  breakfast  room. 
As  they  were  last  to  enter  they  had  no  choice  of  seats.  Bedford 

saw  but  one  vacant  place  and  that  was  beside  Judge  T , 

who,  with  his  daughter,  occupied  the  end  of  the  table.  To  re- 
treat was  of  no  avail.  So  he  forced  himself  up  to  the  lady's 
presence  with  an  effort  not  unlike  that  which  a  soldier  makes  in 
marching  up  to  a  cannon.  She  looked  at  him  as  he  sat  down  ; 
but  it  wras  not  wonderful  that  she  did  not  recognize,  in  the  soiled 
and  disordered  fellow  before  her,  who  looked  more  like  a  vaga- 
bond than  any  thing  else,  the  fine  young  gentleman  she  had 
met  at  the  American  House  in  New  York,  and  who  had  been 
present  to  her  fancy  ever  since.  When  Bedford  ventured  to 
lift  his  eyes  to  her  face,  after  taking  his  place  at  the  table,  he 
saw  that  she  did  not  recollect  him,  and  had  he  not  been  ap- 


334  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

prized  of  the  fact  that  the  individual  with  whom  she  was  in  com- 
pany was  Judge  T ,  he  would  hardly  have  discovered,  in 

the  slovenly  figure  and  peevish  face  of  the  lady,  the  delightful 
and  fascinating  young  creature  who  had  won  his  heart  at  first 
sight. 

That  Judge  T was  a  "  hard  old  Christian,"  as  his  friend 

had  said,  Bedford  was  ready  enough  to  admit  before  leaving  the 
breakfast-table ;  for,  some  remark  led  him  into  a  little  contro- 
versy with  the  Judge,  whom  he  found  about  as  rough  as  a  po- 
lar bear.  As  for  Cordelia,  she  made  sundry  little  exhibitions  of 
herself  that  did  not  add  to  the  young  man's  estimation  of  her 
character  for  sweetness  and  amiability  ;  and  when  he  arose  from 
the  table  and  left  the  breakfast-room,  every  charm  with  which 
his  warm  imagination  had  invested  her  was  gone. 

"When  I  fall  in  love  again,"  said  Bedford,  to  his  friend,  as 
they  walked  out  of  the  bar-room  after  settling  the  landlord's  bill, 
"  I'll  put  off  the  declaration  until  I  can  meet  the  lady  in  a  stage- 
coach after  two  days  travel." 

"  When  both  of  you  will  be  cured,  I  fancy,  if  you  prove  as 
amiable  and  accommodating  as  you  were  last  night,  and  cut  as 
fine  a  figure  as  you  do  this  morning." 

The  near  approach  of  Cordelia  and  her  father  prevented  far- 
ther remark  on  that  subject.  It  was  the  intention  of  Bedford  to 
yield  his  place  to  the  lady;  but  she  did  not  wait  for  the  cour- 
tesy. Pressing  forward,  she  clambered  into  the  coach,  and  took 

possession  of  the  back  seat ;  and  Judge  T getting  in  after 

her,  cooly  appropriated  a  place  by  her  side.  Being  the  last  to 
approach  the  door  of  the  vehicle,  Bedford  found  that  his  only 
chance  was  to  crowd  past  the  lady,  and  do  penance  between  her 
and  her  father  from  thence  to  Wheeling.  If  any  love,  by  the 
merest  chance  remained,  it  was  all  gone  by  the  time  they  reach- 
ed the  banks  of  the  Ohio. 

Six  months  afterwards  Bedford  and  Miss  T met  in  Cin- 
cinnati at  a  fashionable  party.  The  young  lady  was  as  attrac- 
tive, as  beautiful,  and  as  fascinating  as  before ;  but  her  former 
lover  could  not  forget  the  stage-coach  adventure,  nor  force  him- 
self into  any  thing  beyond  a  reserved  politeness.  It  happened 
that  the  friend  of  Bedford,  who  had  returned  with  him  from  the 
East,  was  also  present.  He  had  become  very  well  acquainted 
with  Cordelia  since  that  time,  having  entered  into  business  in 
the  town  where  she  lived,  and  been  a  frequent  visiter  at  her 


MEETING  AT  BREAKFAST. 


A    STAGE-COACH   ADVENTURE.  335 

father's  house.  To  him  she  said,  a  few  days  after  the  meeting 
in  Cincinnati — 

"  How  greatly  Mr.  Bedford  is  changed.  When  I  saw  him, 
for  the  first  time^  last  summer  in  New  York,  he  was  the  most 
attentive,  affable,  polite  young  man  one  could  wish  to  meet ; 
but  the  other  evening  he  was  so  cold,  distant  and  reserved,  that 
it  fairly  chilled  me  to  come  near  him." 

The  young  man,  as  the  lady  said  this,  thought  of  the  stage- 
coach adventure,  and  the  ludicrous  ideas  it  created  caused  him 
to  laugh  outright. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  about  ?"  inquired  she. 

"  Have  you  never  met  Bedford  since  you  saw  him  in  New 
York?" 

"  Not  until  now." 

"  Are  you  certain  ?"  The  young  man  felt  that  he  could  not 
keep  his  secret,  let  the  effect  of  its  betrayal  be  what  it  might. 

"  Oh,  yes.  He  left  New  York  for  Boston  on  business,  and  I 
started  for  home  before  he  returned." 

"  And,  on  the  way,  stopped  for  a  short  time  at  Browns- 
ville." 

"  What !"     The  young  lady  evinced  surprise. 

"Isn't  it  so?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  resumed  your  journey  one  morning  about  two  o'clock." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?" 

"  You  see  that  I  do  know." 

"  Were  you  a  passenger  at  the  time  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  so  was  Bedford." 

"  Bedford  !"     The  blood  mantled  to  the  brow  of  Cordelia. 

"  He  rode  between  you  and  your  father  from  the  first  stop- 
ping place  after  leaving  Brownsville,  until  you  reached  Wheel- 
ing." 

The  young  lady  looked  confounded. 

"  You  are  only  jesting  with  me,"  said  she,  at  length,  her  face 
brightening. 

"  No,  I'm  in  earnest." 

"  Wrhy,  the  man  who  rode  between  us  was  such  a  miserable 
looking  wretch,  that  I  couldn't  even  be  civil  to  him  ;  and  I  well 
remember,  that  he  was  at  no  pains  to  be  civil  to  me." 

"  That  man  was  Bedford." 

"  Impossible !" 


336  SKETCHES    OF  LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

"  I  do  assure  you  that  it  is  so.  I  was  myself  along,  and  knew 
your  father  by  sight  very  well." 

"  Did  he  know  me  ?" 

"  Not  until  I  pointed  out  your  father,  as  we  were  entering  the 
breakfast  room  at  the  tavern  on  the  morning  after  leaving  the 
place  where  you  had  been  detained  for  a  couple  of  days." 

The  young  lady  very  naturally  became  thoughtful,  as  memory 
•went  back  to  the  time 'that  was  referred  to.  An  image  of  her- 
self, as  she  must  have  appeared  in  the  eyes  of  Bedford,  was  soon 
distinctly  before  her  mind  ,  and  sundry  little  facts  and  incidents 
appertaining  to  her  entrance  into  the  stage  at  Brownsville,  and 
the  ride  to  Wheeling,  came  one  after  another  to  her  recollection. 
It  was  no  cause  of  wonder  that  the  crimson  did  not  fade  quickly 
from  her  brow.  The  young  man  more  than  half  regretted  hav- 
ing permitted  himself  to  refer  to  the  subject. 

"  Don't  take  it  so  much  to  heart,"  said  he,  laughing.  "  I 
only  told  you  as  a  good  joke." 

But  it  was  too  severe  a  joke ;  and,  in  spite  of  all  he  could  do, 
he  failed  to  bring  back  her  mind  into  a  cheerful  tone.  The  re- 
lation, however,  had  one  good  effect,  it  completely  extinguished 
all  tender  emotions  when  an  image  of  the  handsome  and  atten- 
tive young  merchant  arose  in  her  thoughts  ;  for  the  transforma- 
tion to  the  ragged,  uncombed,  unshaven,  disagreeable,  uncour- 
teous  stage-companion  was  almost  instantaneous. 

More  than  fifteen  years  have  passed  since  that  time.  Corde- 
lia T was  married  to  the  friend  of  Bedford,  and  is  now  the 

mother  of  half  a  dozen  children.  Bedford  is  also  married,  and 
the  two  families  live  in  the  same  town  and  are  intimate.  The 
stage-coach  adventure  is  often  referred  to  as  a  capital  joke,  and 
a  good  lesson  for  travelers  who  are  never  certain  about  the  com- 
pany into  which  they  may  happen  to  fall. 


HALF-LENGTHS    IN   OUTLINE. 


MR.    CARPER. 

"  No  doubt  of  it !"  And  Mr.  Carper  tossed  his  head  half 
contemptuously. 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  man  as  you  are.  You  don't  admit  that 
there  is  good  in  any  one." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do,  my  dear.  But  such  disinterested  acts  of 
benevolence  are  not  to  be  met  with  every  day.  You  may  de- 
pend upon  it,  the  Allisons  know  what  they  are  about.  It  will 
appear  before  long.  I've  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  world  in  my 
time ;  and  I  know  that  all  men  and  all  women,  too,  are  selfish. 
I'm  selfish  myself,  and  don't  pretend  to  deny  it — and  he's  a 
hypocrite  that  does.  Don't  tell  me  it  was  pure  benevolence  in 
the  Allisons,  for  I  won't  believe  it." 

"  What  object  could  they  have  in  view,  Mr.  Carper  ?  Mary 
is  poor,  and  hasn't  a  friend  in  the  world." 

"  Dear  knows !  But  you'll  find  out  one  of  these  days.  The 
cloven  foot  can't  always  be  hid.  Depend  upon  it,  there  is  an 
axe  to  grind." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  I  know  Mrs.  Allison  well,  and  I  know 
that  she  is  altogether  unselfish.  In  this  act  she  has  proved  it  to 
the  world.'' 

But  Mr.  Carper  shook  his  head.  "  It  can't  be,  my  dear. 
Every  body  is  selfish.  You  and  I,  and  every  one  else.  It's 
our  nature.  A  poor  compliment  to  human  nature,  I  own  ;  but 
nevertheless,  it's  just  as  I  say." 

29  337 


338  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  I  won't  admit  that  all  are  as  selfish  as  you  would  make  it 
appear.  I  know  it  is  not  so.  Look  at  the  money  that  is  given 
every  day,  in  thousands,  for  charitable  purposes." 

"  Given  to  be  seen  of  men,"  returned  Mr.  Carper.  I  know  !" 

"  Look  at  the  self-sacrificing  Sister  of  Charity.  What  end  can 
she  have  in  view  that  is  not  purely  benevolent?" 

"  She  thinks  to  earn  heaven.      It  is  selfishness  that  inspires 

her." 

"  Look  at  the  Missionary." 

"  He  seeks  to  be  honored  of  men  for  a  virtue  he  does  not  pos- 
sess." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,  Mr.  Carper." 

"  It's  true.  All  men  are  selfish,  and  every  motive  that  in- 
spires to  action  is  some  form  of  selfishness.  I  know  !" 

"  Is  there  selfishness  in  a  mother's  love  ?" 

"  Yes.  -  She  loves  herself  in  her  child.  If  her  love  be  unse.- 
fish,  why  doesn't  she  love  other  children,  equally  helpless  and 
innocent,  as  well  as  she  loves  her  own  ?  Human  nature  is  hu- 
man nature  my  dear — bad  at  the  best ;  and  all  this  show  of  good 
in  some  people  is  sheer  hypocrisy.  I  know  !" 

"  Well,  Mr.  Carper,  all  I  have  to  say  is,  that  I  should  be  sor- 
ry to  think  as  badly  of  mankind  as  you  do — very  sorry.  I  be- 
lieve there  is  a  great  deal  of  good  in  the  world,  and  am  very 
happy  to  think  so." 

Mr.  Carper,  as  the  reader  may  readily  infer  from  the  manner 
in  which  he  has  just  expressed  his  opinions,  was  a  man  who 
never  gave  any  body  credit  for  acting  from  a  disinterested  mo- 
tive. He  had  never  done  so  himself,  and  did  not  believe  that 
it  was  possible  for  any  one  else  to  do  it.  Notwithstanding,  this, 
his  settled  opinion  of  mankind,  it  was  a  little  remarkable  that  he 
was  always  finding  fault  with  this,  that,  and  the  other  one,  for 
not  exhibiting,  in  their  conduct,  the  very  qualities  he  denied  them. 
If  any  one  acted  generously,  he  attributed  it  to  a  selfish  motive  •, 
and  if  another  acted  selfishly,  he  expressed  a  due  portion  of 
surprise  and  indignation  at  his  conduct,  especially  if  he  happen- 
ed to  be  affected  by  it.  Do  as  you  would,  Mr.  Carper  always 
saw  something  to  censure. 

The  Allisons,  whose  motives  for  a  kind  act  he  had  been  ques- 
tioning, were  a  family  consisting  of  Mr.  John  Allison  a  mer- 
chant, Mrs.  Allison  his  wife,  a  sister,  and  two  daughters.  The 
latter  were  nearly  grown.  In  this  family,  a  young  girl  had  oc- 


HALF-LENGTHS    IN    OUTLINE.  339 

casionally  been  employed  as  seamstress.  She  gained  her  liveli- 
hood by  going  out  and  sewing  when  she  could  get  work  to  do. 
She  had  no  relatives.  There  was  something  about  this  friend- 
less girl  that  excited  the  sympathy  of  Mrs.  Allison.  She  was 
young,  retiring  and  modest,  and  seemed  always  to  be  conscious 
of  her  lonely  condition ;  and  yet,  withal,  she  was  of  a  cheerful 
temper.  Her  name  was  Mary. 

Mrs.  Alison  had  engaged  her  to  come  and  sew  for  her  in  the 
Spring,  and  Mrs.  Carper  had  done  the  same.  She  was  to  go  to 
Mrs.  Carper's  for  three  weeks,  and  then  come  to  Mrs.  Alison's. 

Mary  had  taken  a  severe  cold  during  the  winter,  which  had 
fastened  upon  her  a  hollow,  concussive  cough,  that  was  exceed- 
ingly troublesome.  While  at  Mr.  Carper's  she  took  fresh  cold, 
and  became  so  unwell  that  she  had  to  give  up  work,  and  go 
home  to  the  room  she  rented  from  a  poor  widow.  She  took  to 
her  bed  and  was  quite  sick.  Not  coming  to  Mrs.  Alison's  at 
the  time  she  had  appointed,  that  lady  called  to  know  if  she  were 
not  ready  to  begin  her  engagement,  and  found  Mary  extremely 
ill.  She  had  little  or  no  attention  from  the  woman  of  whom  she 
rented,  who  was  about  having  her  taken  to  the  Alms  House.  In 
the  kindness  of  her  heart,  and  from  no  inspiration  but  that  of 
true  benevolence,  Mrs.  Allison  proposed  to  her  husband  and  sis- 
ter that  they  should  have  Mary  brought  to  their  house  and  pro- 
perly taken  care  of.  This  suggestion  was  fully  approved,  and 
Mary  was  accordingly  removed,  and  every  attention  bestowed 
upon  her — as  much  so  as  if  she  had  been  a  near  relative  of  the 
family. 

This  was  the  act  that  Mr.  Carper  contended  had  its  origin  in 
selfishness.  The  Allisons,  he  was  very  sure,  had  some  ultimate- 
ly expected  good  in  their  minds,  which  they  believed  would  re- 
sult from  this  pretended  act  of  genuine  benevolence. 

Mary,  poor  girl,  never  left  her  room  after  she  was  kindly  ta- 
ken into  the  family  of  Mrs.  Alison.  She  lingered  on  for  some 
months,  and  then  died. 

"  I  reckon  that  didn't  pay,"  said  Mr.  Carper  to  his  wife,  when 
she  mentioned  to  him  the  fact  that  Mary  was  dead. 

"  I  presume  Mrs.  Allison  received  all  the  pay  she  ever  expec- 
ted. She  told  me,  when  I  was  there  this  morning,  that  she 
never  thought  the  girl  would  live,  from  the  moment  she  saw  how 
ill  she  was ;  and  that  she  could  not  bear  to  think  of  her  going 
to  the  Alms  House  and  dying  there." 


340  SKETCHES    Or   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

Mr.  Carper  shook  his  head,  and  pursed  up  his  lips. 

"  Tell  that  to  the  marines." 

"  If  you  had  seen  how  really  grieved  she  was  at  Mary's  death 
you  would  not  talk  so." 

"  I've  not  the  least  doubt  of  her  grief.     But — 

"  But  what  ?" 

"  No  wonder.  She  lost  a  very  useful  girl  who  would  have 
been  bound  to  her  by  gratitude.  Depend  upon  it,  if  Mary  had 
lived,  we  should  never  have  had  her  services  again." 

"  It's  abominable,  Mr.  Carper !  I'm  ashamed  of  you  !  If  I 
thought  as  badly  of  the  world  as  you  do,  I'd  go  out  of  it." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  that  you  would  better  yourself  much,"  Mr. 
Carper  said,  a  little  sarcastically ;  but  with  a  twinkle  of  humor 
in  his  eyes. 

Some  months  after  this,  three  of  Mr.  Carper's  children  were 
taken  dangerously  ill,  and,  as  the  disease  progressed  towards  a 
crisis,  it  became  necessary  that  some  one  should  sit  up  with 
them  every  night.  This  watching  had  continued  so  long,  that 
the  family  was  completely  worn  out.  It  was  known  among 
their  friends  that  they  had  prolonged  and  serious  illness  in  the 
house.  Some  dropped  in  now  and  then  to  ask  how  the  children 
were  getting — some  sent  their  sen-ants  daily  to  make  enquiries. 
Among  those  who  called  were  Mrs.  Allison  and  her  sister,  and 
their  expression  of  interest  and  concern  was  so  real,  that  even 
Mr.  Carper  doubted  whether  it  were  not  genuine.  As  to  all  the 
rest,  he  set  down  their  enquiries  and  calls  as  mere  form,  done 
for  the  sake  of  appearances. 

Just  at  the  right  moment,  when  all  were  so  fatigued  with 
watching  as  to  be  more  than  half  sick,  Mrs.  Allison  came  and 
offered  to  sit  up  with  the  children.  The  kind  overture  was  ac- 
cepted. Even  Mr.  Carper  was  touched  by  it,  and  felt  that  it 
was  not  a  purely  selfish  act.  On  the  night  after,  the  sister 
of  Mrs.  Allison  came,  and  then,  on  the  two  suceeeding  nights, 
the  daughters.  The  children  were  so  ill,  that  two  persons  were 
now  required  to  with  them,  both  day  and  night.  For  more  than 
two  weeks,  some  member  of  Mr.  Allison's  family  sat  up  regu- 
larly with  them.  This  was  a  service,  the  value  of  which  was 
not  to  be  estimated.  And  it  was  done  so  cheerfully  and  affec- 
tionately, and  with  such  a  tender  interest  in  the  little  sufferers, 
that  Mr.  Carper  was  more  than  once  moved  to  tears  by  its 
unstudied  and  almost  unconscious  exhibition.  When  the  dark 


HALF-LENGTHS   IN    OUTLINE.  341 

shadow  from  the  wing  of  death,  that  had  rested  for  so  long  a 
period  over  the  household  treasures  of  Mr.  Carper,  had  lifted 
itself  up,  and  let  in  a  beam  from  the  sun  of  hope,  the  pleasure 
of  Mrs.  Allison  and  her  family  was  so  natural  and  genuine  that 
Mr.  Carper  felt  and  acknowledged  in  his  heart  that  it  could  only 
come  from  an  unselfish  source. 

But,  strange  perversity  of  the  heart ;  it  was  not  many  weeks 
after  light  and  music  were  again  restored  to  his  dwelling,  before 
the  oft  repeated  praise  of  the  Allisons  that  fell  from  the  lips  of 
his  wife,  was  coldly  received  by  Mr.  Carper ;  then  with  a  shrug  ; 
and  finally  with  an  unblushing  declaration  of  his  opinion  that  the 
Allisons  knew  what  they  were  about,  and  it  would  be  seen  one 
of  these  days.  Human  nature  was  human  nature,  and  it  was 
no  use  to  try  to  make  him  believe  that  people  acted  from  an 
unselfish  regard  for  others.  He  knew  ! 

And  thus  Mr.  Carper  goes  on.  Occasionally,  something  like 
the  kind  attentions  of  the  Allisons  to  his  children,  staggers  him 
for  a  time,  and  drives  back  the  bitter  waters  of  his  captious 
spirit ;  but  they  soon  resume  again  their  steady  flow,  and  he 
sees  in  others'  acts  only  a  reflection  of  his  own  selfish  ends 
and  impulses. 

"  Don't  talk  to  me,"  he  will  say,  "  about  the  goodness  of 
the  human  heart,  genuine  benevolence,  and  all  that.  I've  lived 
too  long  in  the  world,  and  seen  too  much  in  my  time.  There 
isn't  a  bit  of  it.  The  serpent  hides  among  all  these  flowers,  so 
beautiful  to  the  eye.  But  you  can't  deceive  me.  I  know !" 


MR.   NIGHTSHADE. 

"  It's  the  scarlet  fever,  Jane,  I'm  sure  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Night- 
shade, with  a  troubled  look  and  anxious  voice,  as  he  stood  with 
his  wife  beside  the  bed  on  which  their  little  boy  lay  sick.  He 
had  been  quite  well  in  the  morning,  but  after  dinner  drooped 
about,  and  fell  asleep  towards  the  middle  of  the  afternoon. 
When  Mr.  Nightshade  came  home  at  dusk,  Harry  was  moaning 
in  his  sleep,  that  had  been  prolonged  to  an  unusual  period,  and 
29* 


342  SKETCHES    JF    LITE   AND    CHARACTER. 

had  considerable  fever.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  Scarletina 
about,  and  several  children  had  died  with  it  in  the  immediate 
neighboihood.  This  was  enough  to  fill  the  heart  of  the  nervous 
Mr.  Nightshade  with  alarm. 

"  It's  scarlet  fever,  Jane.  There  is  no  doubt  of  it.  Have  you 
sent  for  the  doctor  ?" 

"  Not  yet.  I  thought  I  would  wait  until  you  came  home.  I 
didn't  feel  at  all  alarmed.  Children,  you  know,  are  often  at- 
tacked with  slight  fevers  like  this,  which  go  off  in  a  few  hours." 

"  This  is  no  slight  fever,"  returned  Mr.  Nightshade,  the  sha- 
dows gathering  still  more  deeply  over  his  face.  "  I  will  go  at 
once  for  the  doctor." 

"  Hadn't  you  better  wait  until  after  tea  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  !     I  don't  wan't  any  tea.     It  would  strangle  me  !" 

"  You  really  give  yourself  unnecessary  alarm,  Mr.  Nightshade. 
/  don't  think  it  any  thing  serious." 

"  Isn't  scarlet  fever  something  serious,  ha  ?" 

"  But  we're  not  sure  it's  scarlet  fever." 

"  I  am  just  as  sure  of  it  as  I  ever  was  of  any  thing  in  my  life. 
Isn't  it  all  around  us,  and  the  air  full  of  it  ?  How  could  he  help 
contracting  the  disease  ?" 

And  Mr.  Nightshade  hurried  off  for  the  doctor.  When  this 
individual,  so  welcome  in  sickness,  but  greeted  with  a  cold 
shoulderishness  when  health  bounds  lightly  through  the  veins, 
came,  after  an  hour's  delay,  which  seemed  a  week  to  the  anx- 
ious Mr.  Nightshade,  the  father  watched  every  expression  of  his 
face,  and  every  motion,  while  he  examined  the  symptoms  of  lit- 
tle Harry. 

"Well,  doctor,"  said  Mr.  Nightshade,  breathing  thickly, 
"  What  do  you  think  of  him  ?" 

"  He  has  some  fever,"  replied  Esculapius. 

"  Do  you  think  it  scarlet  fever  ?"  anxiously  enquired  the 
father. 

"  I  hope  not." 

"  But  hasn't  he  every  symptom  ?" 

"  In  ephemeral  as  well  as  more  serious  febrile  affections,  the 
first  symptoms  very  nearly  resemble  each  other.  It  is  always 
impossible  to  tell  in  its  incipiency  what  the  course  of  a  fever  is 
going  to  be.  I  hope  this  will  not  prove  at  all  alarming.  I  will 
call  around  in  the  morning,  when  I  trust  I  shall  find  your  little 
boy  better."  The  doctor  gave  a  light  prescription,  more  for  the 


HALF-LENGTHS    IN   OUTLINE.  343 

purpose  of  satisfying  the  parents  than  any  thing  else,  and  then 
went  away. 

Mr.  Nightshade  walked  the  floor  until  twelve  o'clock,  and  it 
was  not  until  long  after  little  Harry's  skin  was  cool  and  moist, 
that  he  would  take  off  his  clothes  and  retire  to  rest. 

When  the  doctor  came  on  the  next  morning,  Harry  was  play  • 
ing  about  and  singing  to  himself,  as  lively  as  a  cricket. 

"  I  was  sure  it  was  nothing  serious,"  said  Mrs.  Nightshade 
to  her  husband.  "  But  you  are  so  easily  frightened." 

"  Better  be  scared  than  hurt,"  returned  Mr.  Nightshade,  a 
little  put  out  with  himself  for  having  made  another  exhibition  of 
his  weak  side.  "  I'd  rather  be  frightened  fifty  times  at  scarlet 
fever,  than  have  it  in  the  house  once." 


"  Yes,  sir ;  there  will  be  a  war  with  England  before  three 
months.  It's  inevitable." 

"  I  hope  not,  Mr.  Nightshade.  I  think  better  of  the  good 
sense  of  both  countries." 

"  It's  more  than  I  do,  then.  Yes,  sir,  there  will  be  war ! 
Look  at  the  articles  in  the  Times  !  Look  at  Sir  Robert  Peel's 
emphatic  language ;  and  then  look  at  the  articles  in  the  Gov- 
ernment organ  at  Washington  !  Neither  country  will  yield  an 
inch,  sir!  I  saw  that  from  the  first.  We  shall  all  be  over- 
whelmed in  ruin.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  there  were  half  a 
dozen  war  steamers  on  our  coast  in  ten  days  from  this.  The 
President's  meSsage  has  done  the  business  for  us  completely.  In 
less  than  three  months  from  this  time,  you  will  hear  of  more  fail- 
ures than  have  occurred  since  thirty-five  and  six.  It's  just  what 
I  expected." 

"  But  the  commercial  interests  of  the  two  countries  are  so 
intimately  blended.  There  is  too  much  at  stake  on  both  sides." 

"  What  do  politicians  care  about  mercantile  or  manufacturing 
interests  ?  Not  the  snap  of  a  finger !  They  have  no  stake  in 
business.  No,  no,  sir.  All  they  care  about,  is  plunging  the 
country  into  a  war,  and,  in  the  elementary  disorder  and  ebulli- 
tions that  must  follow,  secure  their  own  selfish  and  ambitious 
ends." 

"  I  won't  believe  it,  Mr.  Nightshade.  I  will  still  look  upon 
the  bright  side,  and  hope  for  the  best." 


344  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  Yes,  that  is  just  the  way,"  muttered  Mr.  Nightshade  to  him- 
self, as  he  walked  along  with  his  eyes  cast  gloomily  upon  the 
pavement.  "  Just  the  way — no  body  is  afraid — no  body  expects 

any  evii all  look  upon  the  bright  side.     But  it  will  come  in 

spite  of  all  this,  and  then  we'll  see  who'll  make  the  loudest  out- 
cry. People  may  stick  their  heads  under  the  sand  like  ostrich- 
es ;  but  it  won't  save  'em.  We  shall  see  who's  right  before 
three  months  roll  around !" 


"  I  don't  believe  the  boy  will  ever  make  any  thing,  Jane.  I'm 
out  of  all  heart  with  him." 

"  Don't  be  impatient,  Mr.  Nightshade.  Don't  look  for  the 
worst.  All  we  can  do,  is  to  prepare  the  earth  and  sow  the  seed. 
We  mustn't  get  discouraged  if  it  doesn't  spring  up  as  quickly 
as  we  could  wish,  nor  endanger  its  growth  by  digging  down  to 
see  if  it  is  beginning  to  germinate.  I  havn't  much  fear  for  the 
ultimate  result." 

"  I  have,  then.  I  don't  believe  he'll  turn  out  worth  a  farthing. 
Here  he  is,  twelve  years  of  age,  as  dull,  ungainly,  unpolished, 
and  rude  a  cub  as  ever  was  licked  by  a  bear.  I'm  ashamed  of 
him.  He's  got  no  pride,  nor  ambition,  nor  industry,  nor  any 
thing  that  is  good,  worth  naming." 

"  For  mercy's  sake,  Mr.  Nightshade,  don't  talk  so  about  the 
boy !  Don't  exaggerate  his  defects.  Harry  has  many  good 
qualities,  and,  in  a  little  while,  they  will  begin  to  preponderate 
in  his  character.  Think  of  his  excellencies,  Mr.  Nightshade, 
and  you  will  see  much  to  encourage  you." 

"  Excellencies,  indeed  !     I  should  like  to  find  some." 

"  Did  you  ever  know  him  to  tell  a  lie  ;  or  even  to  evade  the 
truth  on  any  pretence  ?" 

"  No." 

"  That's  something.  Harry  is  a  truthful,  honest  boy.  He-e 
is  good  ground  into  which  to  sow  good  seed.  Is  he  not  gener- 
ous and  kind  to  his  brothers  and  sisters  ?" 

"  Yes,  he's  kind  enough." 

"  And  unselfish  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  there's  nothing  greedy  about  him — but — " 

"  His  teacher  has  never  complained  of  his  dullness,  has  he  ?" 


HALF-LENGTHS    IN    OUTLINE.  345 

"  No.  But  just  look  at  him  now.  Did  you  ever  see  such  an 
awkward  position,  or  such  a  stupid  face  ?" 

u  He's  rather  awkward,  I  know  ;  but  he  can't  well  help  that 
now.  He'll  get  over  it.  As  to  his  having  such  a  stupid  face, 
I  must  differ  with  you,  Mr.  Nightshade." 

But  Mr.  Nightshade  was  out  of  all  heart  with  the  boy,  and 
didn't  believe  he  would  ever  come  to  any  thing. 

A  few  years  later,  Harry  took  three  or  four  of  the  highest  pri- 
zes at  school,  in  succession. 

"  All  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Nightshade,  "  Thankful  for  so 
much.  But  he  has  no  address.  He'll  never  get  along  in  the 
world.  He'll  never  make  a  man.  I  know  it.  I  see  it  plainly 
enough." 

At  twenty-one,  Harry  stepped  upon  the  world's  arena,  well 
educated,  intelligent,  manly  in  his  deportment,  and  with  address 
enough  to  carry  him  any  where.  There  was  no  fears  for  him. 

"I  wouldn't  have  believed  it,"  said  Mr.  Nightshade.  "It 
seems  hardly  credible.  I'm  thankful ;  that's  all  I  can  say.  I 
certainly  never  expected  it." 

"  But  you  always  look  upon  the  dark  side,  Mr.  Nightshade." 

"  So  you  are  forever  saying,  Mrs.  Nightshade,  "  but  I  don't 
admit  it,  and  never  did.  I  can  see  a  bright  side  as  well  as  any 
one.  But  when  it  thunders  I  don't  leave  my  umbrella  at  home, 
thinking  it  won't  rain.  Not  I.  I  take  heed  to  what  is  passing 
around  me,  and,  foreseeing  the  evil  as  a  wise  man  should,  hide 
myself;  not,  like  a  fool  in  the  dark,  dash  blindly  ahead  and 
knock  my  brains  out  against  a  wall." 


MR.    BRAY. 

Mr.  Bray  is  a  man  who  would  at  any  time  rather  prick  his 
nose  against  a  thistle  than  smell  at  a  flower.  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds used  to  call  himself  a  "  wide  liker" — we  believe  it  was 
Sir  Joshua — but  Mr.  Bray  is  another  sort  of  person  altogether. 

"  Ah,  good  morning,  Mr.  Bray !"  said  a  friend,  not  long  since, 
meeting  him  on  Chestnut  street. 

"  Good  morning,  sir ;  how  are  you  ?" 


346  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND   CHARACTER. 

"  Very  well.  I've  just  been  looking  at  something  new  and 
beautiful  in  Robinson's  windows." 

"  Painting  ?" 

"  Yes.     Have  you  seen  it  ?" 

"  I  have."     Mr.  Bray  spoke  indifferently. 

"  It's  a  splendid  piece  of  work.     Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  A  bad  sky — very  bad  !     Cold  as  winter." 

"  But  the  whole  effect  of  the  picture  is  grand.  Did  you  ever 
see  such  an  atmosphere,?  And  such  a  foliage  ?  You  can  almost 
see  the  leaves  fluttering  in  the  wind." 

"  The  trunk  of  a  tree  on  the  right  looks  as  stiff  and  formal  as 
a  sign-post.  It  spoils  the  whole  picture." 

"  You  don't  like  it  then,  Mr.  Bray  ?" 

"  There  are  some  good  points  in  it ;  but  it's  full  of  faults." 

"  I  must  confess  I  did  not  notice  any,  I  was  so  pleased  with 
the  whole  composition." 

"  Oh,  yes !  It  is  full  of  them.  The  artist  has  some  merit, 
and  his  picture  some  fine  points.  As  a  whole,  the  effect  is  pas- 
sable, but  the  detail  is  bad.  There  isn't  a  single  part  that  is  riot 
amenable  to  criticism." 

The  friend,  on  separating  from  Mr.  Bray,  entertained  a  high 
regard  for  his  taste,  and  quite  a  poor  opinion  of  his  own  that 
could  perceive  beauty  in  a  composition  so  full  of  defects. 


"  Mr.  B is  a  fine  speaker,"  remarked  an  acquaintance, 

on  leaving  the  church,  after  having  listened  to  a  very  eloquent 
discourse  from  a  minister  of  some  celebrity. 

"  Yes,  but  he  as  his  faults." 

"  I  was  so  much  interested  that  I  did  not  notice  his  faults. 
Didn't  you  think  that  passage,  in  which  he  compared  the  close 
of  a  man's  life  to  a  beautiful  sunset,  a  most  exquisite  piece  of 
painting." 

"It  contained  two  false  metaphors,"  returned  Mr.  Bray,  with 
a  slight  expression  of  contempt  in  his  manner.  "  I  was  com- 
pletely astonished  to  hear  a  man  of  his  reputation  make  such 
blunders.  Depend  upon  it,  he  is  overrated." 

"  But,  Mr.  Bray,  didn't  you  think  the  whole  description  a 
masterly  performance  ?" 

"  I  thought  it  rather  common-place.     The  idea  is  as  old  as 


HALF-LENGTHS    IN    OUTLINE.  347 

the  hills.  Every  poet  and  preacher  that  has  written  or  spoken 
in  the  last  fifty  years,  has  made  use  of  it." 

"  What  did  you  think  of  his  argument  to  prove  that  man's 
soul  is  immortal  ?" 

"  It  contained  some  fine  language,  but  not  an  original  idea. 
All  that  I  have  heard,  over  and  over  again." 

"  Then  the  sermon  was  a  perfect  failure  in  your  estima- 
tion ?" 

"  No,  not  altogether.  Mr.  B doubtless  has  talents, 

and  is  quite  a  fine  speaker,  though  evidently  much  overrated. 
You  remember  his  comparison  between  Shakspeare  and  Milton?" 

"  Very  well." 

"  That  was  certainly  very  fine — very  fine  indeed !  And  if 
original,  sufficient  to  redeem  the  whole  performance.  xBut  it 
strikes  me  that  I  have  heard  or  seen  it  before.  I  must  try  if  I 
cannot  find  it  in  Hazlitt.  I  think  it  is  there." 

"  You  are  a  close  critic,  Mr.  Bray." 

"  Oh,  no !  Not  at  all.  I  enjoy  beauties  as  well  as  any 
one ;  but  cannot  bear  to  see  them  marred  by  so  many  glaring 
defects." 


"  A  beautiful  creature !  See  how  lightly  she  moves  through 
the  cotillon,  a  very  sylph  for  airy  grace.  A  rare  and  sweet  flow- 
er that,  Mr.  Bray.  No  wonder  her  father  is  proud  of  her." 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  altogether  admire  her  beauty,"  returned 
Mr.  Bray,  a  little  coldly.  "  I  never  could  bear  that  eternal 
smirk.  I  like  to  see  a  countenance  sink  into  repose,  and  only 
light  up  with  expression  when  there  is  something  to  express. 
But  Flora's  face  is  forever  a  wreath  of  smiles." 

"  Oh,  no,  not  always." 

"  Look  at  her  now." 

"  But  she  is  dancing,  and  all  her  happiest  feelings  are  excited. 
It  would  be  strange  if  her  face  were  not  lit  up  now." 

"  It's  always  so,"  returned  Mr.  Bray,  positively.  "  I  never 
saw  her  in  my  life  that  she  was  not  grinning.  To  me  such  faces 
are  intolerable.  And  more  than  that,  she  can't  sit  still  a  minute  ; 


she  is  forever  fidgetting  about." 
"  I  think  her  very  beautiful." 


348  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  I  know  she  is  called  beautiful.  But  I  must  own  I  never 
was  much  attracted  by  her  style  of  beauty.  She  wears  her  hair 
abominably." 

"  It  curls  naturally.  I  like  to  see  a  young  girls  neck  a  mass 
of  glossy  curls.  You  certainly  don't  dislike  curls,  Mr.  Bray  ?" 

"  Oh,  no.  On  the  contrary,  I  admire  curls.  But  not  in  little 
cork-screws  such  as  Flora  wears.  I  like  to  see  three  or  four 
large  ones  on  each  side  of  the  face." 

"  Like  shavings  from  under  a  plane." 

"  Yes,  if  you  will ;  but  not  like  shaving-matches  or  cork- 
screws." 

"  She  certainly  has  a  form  of  exquisite  proportions,  Mr. 
Bray?" 

"  There  I  must  again  differ  with  you.  I  never  like  to  see  a 
woman  vary  in  the  least  from  the  standard  of  just  proportions 
given  in  the  Venus  de  Medici.  Flora  is  too  tall  and  lathey,  to 
use  a  vulgarism.  This  takes  from  the  gracefulness  of  her  mo- 
tions." 

"  Then  it  seems  you  differ  from  the  general  estimation  in  which 
Flora  is  held  ?" 

"  Yes — to  some  extent.  She  is  not  ugly.  I  don't  mean  that 
I  will  even  admit  her  beauty ;  but  it  is  by  no  means  perfect." 

Mr.  Bray  had  a  daughter  who,  by  actual  measurement  against 
the  wall,  proved  to  be,  to  a  line,  the  height  of  the  Venus  de 
Medici.  But  that  did  not  make  her  a  paragon  of  grace  and 
beauty,  by  any  means.  No  one  ever  felt  like  complaining  of 
her  eternal  smirk  ;  and  as  to  curls,  spite  of  pipe  stems  and  pa- 
per, her  hair  displayed  a  remarkable  antipathy  to  ringlets. 

Show  Mr.  Bray  a  fancy  portrait  that  to  you  is  faultless,  and 
he  will  detect  a  slight  obliquity  in  one  of  the  eyes,  or  discover 
that  the  nose  is  a  little  out  of  drawing.  He  was  once  asked  his 
opinion  of  a  fine  model  of  the  Venus  de  Medici,  his  beau  ideal 
of  beauty,  which  he  was  told  was  an  attempt  at  a  Venus  by  a 
young  sculptor  of  great  promise.  After  looking  at  it  from  every 
possible  position,  sometimes  with  one  eye  shut,  sometimes  with 
both  open,  he  gravely  pronounced  the  figure  to  be  "  rather 
dumpy,"  and,  upon  the  whole,  "  an  entire  failure  !"  And  then 
the  amused  friend  was  edified  by  a  particular  criticism  upon  the 
entire  performance.  After  this  had  been  pronounced  quite  orac- 
ularly, and  just  in  the  nick  of  time,  another  person  came  in, 
and  after  making  a  few  remarks  on  the  statue,  spoke  of  it  as  a 


HALF-LENGTHS   IN   OUTLINE.  349 

most  admirable  copy  of  the  Medician  Venus.  To  this  Mr.  Biay 
at  once  objected. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  returned  the  stranger,  politely,  "  it  is  a  copy,  made 
in  Florence,  by  a  young  American  sculptor,  and  is  said  to  be 
exact." 

Mr.  Bray,  when  he  had  once  pronounced  his  opinion  on  any 
subject  was  as  immovable  as  a  donkey,  and  could  understand 
reasons  and  perceive  the  force  of  arguments  about  as  well. 

"  The  Venus  de  Medici,"  he  said,  drawing  himself  up  with 
an  air  of  importance,  and  speaking  oracularly,  "  is  at  least  an 
inch  and  a  half  higher,  and  more  delicate  in  all  its  proportions. 
I  have  seen  two  exquisite  copies  in  London." 

The  owner  of  the  statue  was  now  referred  to.  He  was  called 
in  from  an  adjoining  room. 

"  What  Venus  is  this  ?"  asked  Mr.  Bray,  eagerly,  and  with 
anticipated  triumph  in  his  voice. 

"  It  is  the  Venus  de  Medici,"  was  replied,  with  a  bow  and  a 
smile. 

"  Oh,  no.  That  cannot  be,"  returned  Mr.  Bray,  gravely.  "  The 
Medician  Venus  is  at  least  an  inch  taller,  and  far  more  delicate 
in  all  its  proportions." 

"  I  believe  this  to  be  true  to  the  original,"  quietly  returned  the 
owner.  "  At  least  it  ought  to  be.  It  is  the  work  of  an  artist 
of  remarkable  ability,  who,  while  cutting  it,  had  daily  access  to 
the  Florentine  gallery.  But  I  think  I  have  the  proportions  of 
the  original  here." 

The  owner  turned  to  a  table,  and  opened  a  work  on  art,  filled 
with  exquisitely  engraved  specimens  of  some  of  the  noblest  ex- 
isting compositions.  It  contained  an  admirable  drawing  of  the 
Venus  de  Medici,  and  also  a  full  description,  with  accurately 
marked  proportions.  The  application  of  a  rule,  soon  satisfied 
Mr.  Bray  that,  in  height  and  breadth  between  the  shoulders,  the 
copy  was  accurate  to  a  line. 

The  dogmatic  connoisseur  was  considerably  dashed  at  this ; 
but  he  contended,  stoutly,  that  there  was  something  about  the 
statue  that  marked  it  as  a  very  defective  piece  of  work,  and  de- 
clared, finally,  when  bated  to  the  last  extreme,  that  it  was  more 
like  an  Indian  Squaw  than  the  Medician  Venus !  And  left  his 
tormentors  in  a  huff. 

He  had  been  caught  in  a  trap,  but  he  never  forgot  nor  forgave 
those  who  had  laid  it  for  him.  He  is  rather  more  careful  how 
30 


350  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

he  talks  before  men  who  are  likely  to  know  something  about 
matters  and  things  in  discussion.     But  with  women,  of  whose 
intellect  he  has  a  very  poor  opinion,  he  still  shows  off  grandly. 
Who  does  not  know  Mr.  Bray  ? 


MR.  CAREER. 

"  Ah,  me !  Things  look  dark  ahead.  How  are  we  to  get 
along  ?  I'm  sure  I  can't  see.  It  is  just  as  much  as  we  can  do 
to  make  both  ends  meet  now." 

This  was  said  by  Mr.  Reuben  Carker,  on  the  occasion  of  one 
of  those  interesting  family  occurrences,  the  advent  of  a  baby. 
Instead  of  receiving  the  gift  of  beauty  and  innocence  with  a 
thankful  heart,  as  he  ought  to  have  done,  Mr.  Carker  must  sit 
down  and  brood  over  the  fact  of  increased  expense,  and  wonder 
what  he  was  to  do  to  meet  it.  He  did  not  reason  in  the  cool, 
confident  way  that  his  wife  did,  on  the  subjeet.  She  took  it  for 
granted,  that  He  who  sent  babies  would  send  something  for 
them  to  eat  and  wear ;  and  after  this  tenor  she  replied  to  the 
above  remark. 

But  her  words  made  very  little  impression  on  Mr.  Carker. 
Faith  in  Providence  was  something  too  intangible  for  him  to  rest 
upon.  It  might  do  for  some  people  ;  but  not  for  him.  If  he 
held  the  note  of  a  rich  merchant,  falling  due  at  the  expiration 
of  three,  six,  or  nine  months,  he  felt  that  he  had  something  upon 
which  to  base  a  calculation  for  the  future.  But  trusting  in  Pro- 
vidence was  too  uncertain  a  thing  for  him.  All  might  come  out 
right,  but  he  had  no  security — no  honor  or  mercantile  character 
pledged — no  sign  manual — no  bond  and  mortgage  to  rely  upon. 

"  Don't  worry  yourself,  Mr.  Carker,"  his  wife  would  say, 
when  her  husband  fell  into  these  desponding  humors.  "  We  shall 
get  along  well  enough.  Wre  have  always  had  sufficient." 

"  Yes,"  he  would  reply,  half  impatiently — "  but  our  expenses 
have  been  small  compared  to  what  they  will  be.  If  we  had  no 
increase  of  family  and  there  was  to  be  no  increase  of  expenses, 
I  should  have  no  fears.  But  as  to  living  on  our  present  income, 
in  a  year  or  two  that  is  out  of  the  question." 


MR.  CARKER. 


HALF-LENGTHS   IN    OUTLINE.  351 

"  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.  That  is  my  motto. 
We  have  enough  now,  let  us  enjoy  it,  Mr.  Carker,  and  be  thank- 
ful. Our  care  should  not  go  beyond  the  ways  and  means  of  liv- 
ing right  in  the  present,  and  doing  all  that  lies  in  our  power  for 
the  future." 

"It  is  very  easy  talking!"  was  generally  the  remark  with 
which  Reuben  Carker  silenced  his  wife  on  these  occasions.  It 
put  him  out  of  patience  whenever  any  one  attempted  to  give  him 
confidence  and  make  him  feel  more  comfortable.  He  was  a  de- 
termined doubter  in  regard  to  the  future,  and,  to  all  appearance, 
wished  to  enjoy,  in  his  peculiar  way,  the  benefit  of  his  doubts. 

When  Mr.  Carker  married,  he  was  doing  moderately  well  in 
business.  Not  really  well  enough,  however,  to  justify,  in  his 
own  mind,  clearly,  the  step  he  was  taking.  But  love  is  a  strong 
reasoner,  and  often  overrules  our  better  judgment  and  causes  us 
to  act  with  a  strange  inconsistency.  The  honey-moon  had  not 
passed,  before  Mr.  Carker  began  to  feel  anxious  about  the  future. 
If  he  had  only  been  able  to  keep  fairly  afloat  as  a  single  man, 
what  right  had  he  to  expect  that  his  head  would  remain  above 
water  as  a  married  one  ?  This  was  a  form  of  interrogatory  not 
easily  answered.  The  "  how?"  was  the  puzzling  question. 

When  the  baby  came,  the  "Ah,  me!  how  are  we  to  get 
along  ?"  came  with  it,  to  throw  a  shadow  around  the  innocent 
creature  God  had  sent  to  bless  him. 

But  the  days  came  and  went,  and  each  one  brought  its  rain 
or  its  sunshine.  The  grass  grew,  the  buds  swelled,  the  blossoms 
opened,  and,  from  seed  time  to  harvest,  there  was  a  regular  pro- 
gression and  a  perfection  of  all  things  as  there  had  been  since 
the  creation  of  the  world.  The  business  of  Mr.  Carker  still 
proved  adequate  for  the  supply  of  all  demands,  increased  though 
they  were;  but  he  still  doubted,  and  feared,  and  worried  him- 
self about  the  future.  He  was  sure  that  want  would  visit  him 
in  the  end  ;  that,  when  his  family  had  increased  to  three  or  four 
children,  he  would  get  in  debt,  be  broken  up  in  his  business,  and 
those  he  loved  be  reduced  to  great  suffering.  This  was  his  daily 
thought.  This  was  his  nightly  dream.  Care — anxious,  doubt- 
ing care — was  the  skeleton  in  his  house  that  ever,  with  hollow 
eyes,  stared  grim  and  ghastly  upon  him.  It  was  in  vain  that 
$Irs.  Carker  combatted  this  unhappy  disposition ;  her  words  of 
confidence  and  hope  were  met  by  impatient  queries  as  to  What 
there  was  to  depend  upon  ? 


352  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

"Others,"  he  would  say,  "have  been  driven  to  the  wall 
Others  have  been  reduced  to  the  lowest  point,  and  what  security 
is  there  for  us  ?  None  at  all.  It  is  easy  to  hope,  and  talk  about 
all  coming  out  right  in  the  end ;  but  that  isn't  going  to  keep 
starvation  out  of  your,  house.  I  strive  harder  in  my  business 
than  ever  I  did,  and,  at  the  utmost,  I  can  only  barely  meet  our 
expenses." 

"  And  yet,"  his  wife  would  not  fail  to  urge,  "  our  expenses 
are  at  least  one-third  more  than  they  were.  So  you  see,  with 
increased  demands,  Providence  has  'sent  you  an  increased  in- 
come." 

"  I  don't  see  that  Providence  has  much  to  do  with  it,"  re- 
turned Mr.  Carker.  "  I  have  my  own  increased  efforts  more 
than  any  thing  else  to  thank  for  all  increased  income.  But  hav- 
ing increased  these  efforts  until  every  nerve  is  strained,  I  think 
I  may  fairly  conclude,  that  when  a  still  further  increase  of  ex- 
penses take  place,  there  will  be  nothing  to  meet  it.  Ah,  me  !  I 
don't  know  what  is  to  become  of  us." 

Ten  years  after  his  marriage,  we  find  Mr.  Carker  still  in  busi- 
ness, still  clear  from  debt,  and  in  a  larger  house  with  a  larger 
family.  He  has  four  children.  But  Mr.  Carker  is  unchanged. 
His  face  wears  the  same  unhappy  expression,  and  his  heart  is 
filled  with  the  same  unhappy  doubts.  All  is  dark  before  him. 
Providence  has  given  him  no  note  of  hand ;  no  security  for  fu- 
ture income,  guarantied  by  bond  and  mortgage.  He  sees  before 
him  a  dark  boundary,  beyond  which  he  has  no  hope  of  passing. 
His  four  children  are  growing  up  with  startling  rapidity.  They 
require  an  increased  supply  of  food,  bodily  and  mental,  every 
year ;  and  each  new  suit  of  clothes  is  of  larger  dimensions  and 
more  costly  materials.  Where  is  this  to  end  ?  The  spirits  of 
Mr.  Carker  sink  within  him  at  the  thought;  but  he  works  on  and 
on,  bending  to  his  daily  duties,  uncheered  by  the  pleasant  light 
that  fills  a  hopeful  heart. 

"  Don't  look  so  troubled,  Mr.  Carker,"  said  his  wife  to  him, 
on  the  anniversary  of  their  twelfth  wedding  day.  "  Remember 
the  past,  and  let  that  give  you  confidence.  Our  family  has  in- 
creased until  all  our  expenses  are  doubled,  and  yet  we  have 
enough.  We  have  never  lacked  food  to  eat,  nor  clothes  to  wear ; 
and  I  am  sure  God  will  continue  to  send  us  these  good  things 
while  we  live." 
But  Mr.  Carker  shook  his  head. 


HALF-LENGTHS    IN    OUTLINE.  353 

"  Poor  Clement  failed  last  week,  and  went  all  to  pieces.  He 
was  an  honest,  prudent,  industrious  man.  But  it  availed  nothing. 
Why  didn't  Providence  take  care  of  him  ?" 

Clement  had  a  very  expensive  family.  He  lived  at  double  the 
cost  we  do.  There  is  an  adequate  cause  for  his  failure,  Mr. 
Carker." 

"  I  don't  know  that  his  family  was  so  very  extravagant." 

"  I  do,  then.  I  know  that  it  cost  Mrs.  Clement,  for  dress, 
three  dollars  where  it  cost  me  one ;  and  it  is  the  same  in  regard 
to  her  children's  clothes,  and  to  every  thing  about  her  house.  If 
our  expenses  are  twelve  hundred  dollars  a  year,  their  expenses 
were,  at  the  lowest  cent,  twenty-five  hundred.  Was  his  busi- 
ness more  profitable  than  yours?" 

"  No — scarcely  as  profitable  as  mine  is.  But  that  doesn't 
signify.  Mine  may  fall  off  until  it  bears  no  more  favorable  rela- 
tion to  my  expenses  than  his  did.  In  fact,  I  can  see  that  it  is 
falling  off.  I  never  saw  worse  times  than  these.  There  is  noth- 
ing at  all  doing.  I  hav'n't  made  my  store  expenses  for  a  week." 

"  It  has  rained  for  a  week,  remember  that,  my  dear." 

"  No,  but  apart  from  that,  it  is  terribly  dull.  And  then  there 
is  such  a  competition  in  everything.  A  few  years  ago  there  was 
a  fair  profit  upon  almost  every  article  sold,  but  now  prices  are 
cut  down  at  such  a  rate  that  you  make  scarcely  anything  at  all. 
Goods  are  not  worth  the  trouble  of  selling.  If  things  go  on  in 
this  way  for  a  year  or  two  longer,  we  shall  all  have  to  quit  busi- 
ness. Ah,  me  !" 

It  was  no  use  for  Mrs.  Carker  to  talk.  Her  husband  was  in- 
corrigible ;  and  so  she  abandoned  him,  as  she  had  done  a  hund- 
red times  before,  to  his  own  gloomy  doubts.  But  the  effect  of 
his  unhappy  disposition,  was  to  take  away  from  his  family,  and 
especially  from  his  wife,  all  true  delight.  The  blessings  they 
really  possessed  were  not  more  than  half  enjoyed,  because  the 
head  of  the  family,  to  whom  all  looked,  participated  truly  in  no 
present  good,  in  his  fear  of  approaching  evil,  from  the  dark  wing 
of  which  he  ever  felt  a  shadow  upon  his  heart. 

There  is  no  denying  the  fact  that  Mr.  Carker  had  to  struggle 
pretty  hard  ;  and  to  feel  all  those  causes  of  discouragement  that 
meet  every  man  in  business.  Dull  times,  bad  purchases  and  bad 
sales,  competition,  reduction  of  prices,  and  all  the  evils,  so 
called,  that  beset  trade,  he  had  to  encounter  with  the  rest. 
They  did  not  prostrate  him,  and  for  two  reasons : — first,  because 
30* 


354  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

there  is  an  overruling  Providence — lightly  as  he  thought  and 
spoke  of  it — that  governs  in  the  affairs  of  men  ;  ever  from  evil 
educing  good,  and  throwing  in  at  every  point  a  conservative  and 
balancing  influence  to  weigh  adequately  against  the  struggling 
cupidity  of  man,  that  would,  in  a  little  while,  disorganize  the 
whole  fabric  of  society :— and  secondly,  because  Carker's  very 
fears  made  him  industrious,  prudent,  cautious  and  persevering 
in  his  business. 

Just  at  that  period  in  Carker's  life,  when  he  began  first  to  per- 
ceive that  his  energies  of  body  and  mind  were  beginning  to  fail, 
some  of  his  children  were  old  enough  to  take  care  of  themselves. 
A  daughter  was  married,  and  two  sons  attained  the  age  of  man- 
hood. But  his  face  still  wore,  at  times,  a  troubled  aspect,  and 
he  never  looked  ahead  with  a  cheerful,  confident  spirit. 

u  I'm  afraid  I  shall  see  trouble  yet,"  he  would  now  and  then 
say  to  his  wife,  rousing  up,  perhaps,  from  a  deep  reverie  as  they 
sat  alone  in  the  evening. 

"We  have  got  along  so  far  without  it,  and  I  trust  we  shall  get 
along  without  very  serious  trouble  to  the  end,"  she  would  gene- 
rally reply,  in  a  quiet,  soothing  voice.  But,  as  of  old,  this  con- 
fident spirit  of  his  wife  would  fret  him,  and  cause  a  fuller  expres- 
sion of  his  feelings. 

"  Things  are  changing,"  he  would  say.  "  Thanks  to  a  vig- 
orous mind  and  an  untiring  purpose,  I  kept  in  advance  of  trouble. 
But  I  feel  that  I  am  no  longer  what  I  was.  Neither  body  nor 
mind  are  equal  to  former  efforts.  And  this  is  not  all.  Younger 
men  are  coming  on,  and  are  pushing  business  far  more  vigor- 
ously than  it  has  ever  been  pushed  ;  and  we  of  the  old  school, 
will,  in  a  little  while,  be  unable  to  compete  with  them  all.  I 
don't  know  what  is  going  to  be  the  result;  but  I  feel  more  really 
troubled  than  I  ever  felt  in  my  life — for  there  is  more  real  cause 
for  doubt  and  fear.  I  feel  already,  that  my  business  is  seriously 
affected." 

"  Our  expenses  are  less  now,  by  some  hundreds  of  dollars, 
than  they  were  a  year  or  two  ago." 

"  That  may  be.  1  grant  that.  But  what  is  there  in  this  to 
encourage  us.  Our  boys  will  soon  all  be  off  our  hands,  and  our 
actual  expense  will  be  trifling  to  what  it  now  is : — but  will  they 
succeed  ?  That  is  the  question  that  troubles  me.  Very  few 
young  men  succeed.  They  will  need  assistance.  I  know  they 
will.  A  hand  stretched  out  with  aid,  at  the  right  moment,  has 


HALF-LENGTHS    IN    OUTLINE.  355 

saved  hundreds  of  young  men  in  their  first  efforts ;  but  who  is 
there  to  stretch  out  such  a  hand  to  my  children  in  the  hour  when 
it  is  needed,  but  their  father?  And  if  his  hand  is  palsied,  as  it 
is  likely  to  be,  they  must  fall !  This  thought  pains  me  most 
deeply.  And  Mary's  husband  is  liable  to  meet  with  reverses  as 
well  as  they,  and  may  need  assistance  also.  But  I  shall  not  be 
able  to  give  it.  Ah,  me !  This  is  a  hard  world  to  live  in. 
There  is  no  certainty  in  any  thing.  At  best,  it  is  a  long,  pain- 
ful, doubting  struggle.  Truly  has  life  been  called  a  warfare ; 
and  it  is  one  in  which  but  few  come  off  victorious.  Here  am  I, 
over  fifty  years  of  age,  and  going  down  the  hill  of  life.  I  have 
toiled  with  the  most  unremitting  assiduity,  amid  a  host  of  oppress- 
ing cares  and  fears,  and  where  do  I  now  stand  ?  With  a  firm 
foundation  under  my  feet  ?  No  !  They  rest  upon  shifting  sands. 
Talk  to  me  of  an  overruling  Providence  ?  I  don't  believe  a  word 
of  it.  There  cannot  be!" 

It  was  in  vain  for  Mrs.  Carker,  to  refer  her  husband  to  the  fact 
that  they  always  had  got  along  very  well — always  had  been  able 
to  live  comfortably.  It  was  in  vain  for  her  to  quote  the  encour- 
aging words,  "  As  thy  day  is,  so  shall  thy  strength  be."  The 
past  was  nothing,  and  what  he  called  a  vague  promise,  was 
nothing. 

"  What  have  I  to  depend  upon?"  he  would  answer.  "  The 
past  is  gone,  and  that  I  have  been  saved  from  distress  and  ruin 
so  far,  I  am  thankful.  Heaven  knows  I  am !  But  there  is  no 
security  for  the  future.  In  a  week,  or  a  month,  or  a  year,  every 
thing  may  fail.  Ah,  me !  By  this  time  of  life  I  hoped  to  have 
had  a  comfortable  property  laid  by.  Something  upon  which  I 
could  retire  and  spend  the  balance  of  my  days  in  peace.  Ah, 
me!" 

As  Mr.  Carker  had  feared,  his  business  steadily  declined.  He 
could  not  conduct  it  with  the  energy  that  marked  his  younger 
competitors  in  trade,  and  consequently  he  lost  his  customers,  one 
after  another.  Total  failure  in  business  would  have  been  the 
ultimate'  consequence,  had  it  not  been  for  the  fact,  that  he  asso- 
ciated with  him  one  of  his  sons,  who  had  served  a  four  years' 
apprenticeship  in  a  large  and  energetic  commercial  house.  The 
young  man  saw  the  defect  in  his  father's  business,  and  supplied 
just  what  was  wanted.  His  extensive  acquaintance  among 
country  dealers,  formed  while  salesman  in  the  house  where  he 
had  served  his  time,  enabled  him  soon  to  just  double  the  sales. 


356  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

At  sixty-five,  Mr.  Carker  found  every  thing  around  him  in  a  more 
flourishing  condition  than  it  ever  had  been.  But  he  was  still 
anxious  about  the  future.  There  was  a  good  deal  trusted  out, 
and  there  might  come  a  change  in  monetary  affairs,  and  dash  all 
their  bright  expectations  to  the  earth.  In  view  of  this,  and  of 
the  heavy  amounts  that  were  to  be  paid  in  bank  every  month,  he 
still  uttered  almost  as  dispondingly  as  ever,  his  sad  "Ah,  me!" 
Fortunately  for  Mrs.  Carker,  she  had  too  much  hope  in  her 
character  to  be  very  much  depressed  by  her  husband's  gloomy 
states;  and  now  she  has  become  so  used  to  his  sudden  deep 
drawn  sigh,  and  gloomy  "  Ah,  me !"  that  if  she  did  not  hear 
them  a  few  times  every  week,  she  would  feel  as  if  she  had  lost 
something.  They  have  become  so  associated  with  her  life  and 
the  affection  she  bears  her  husband,  that  they  are  almost  a  part 
of  both.  As  for  Carker,  he  is  too  old  to  mend  now,  and  will 
carry  his  doubts  and  fears  with  him  into  the  next  world.  Whether 
he  will  ever  get  rid  of  them  there,  is  more  than  we  can  tell.  We 
may,  however,  be  permitted  to  hope  that  he  will,  for  to  have  such 
doubts  and  fears  to  eternity  would  be  a  sad  state  for  any  man. 


MR.    WISEACRE. 

It  was  a  standing  boast  with  Mr.  Wiseacre  that  he  had  never 
been  humbugged  iu  his  life.  He  took  the  newspapers  and  read 
them  regularly,  and  thus  got  an  inkling  of  the  new  and  strange 
things  that  were  ever  transpiring,  or  said  to  be  transpiring,  in  the 
world.  But  to  all  he  cried  "  humbug!"  "  imposture  !"  "  delu- 
sion !"  If  ony  one  were  so  bold  as  to  affirm  in  his  presence  a 
belief  in  the  phenomena  of  Animal  Magnetism,  for  instance,  he 
would  laugh  outright ;  then  expend  upon  it  all  sorts  of  ridicule, 
or  say  that  the  whole  thing  was  a  scandalous  trick  ;  and  by  way 
of  a  finale,  wind  off  thus — 

"  You  never  humbug  me  with  these  new  things.  Never  catch 
me  in  gull-traps.  I've  seen  the  rise  and  fall  of  too  many  won- 
ders in  my  time — am  too  old  a  bird  to  be  caught  with  this  kind 
of  chaff." 

As  for  Homcepathy,  it  was  treated  in  a  like  summary  manner. 


HALF-LENGTHS    IN   OUTLINE.  357 

All  was  humbug  and  imposture  from  beginning  to  end.  If  you 
said — 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,  let  me  relate  what  I  have  myself 
seen — " 

He  would  interrupt  you  with — 

"  Oh  !  as  to  seeing,  you  may  see  any  thing,  and  yet  see  noth- 
ing at  all.  I've  seen  the  wonders  of  this  new  science  over  and 
over  again.  There  are  many  wonderful  cures  made  in  imagi- 
nation. Put  a  grain  of  calomel  in  the  Delaware  Bay,  and  sali- 
vate a  man  with  a  drop  of  the  water  !  Is  it  not  ridiculous  ? 
Doesn't  it  bear  upon  the  face  of  it  the  stamp  of  absurdity  ?  It's 
all  humbug,  sir !  All  humbug  from  beginning  to  end.  I  know ! 
I've  looked  into  it.  I've  measured  the  new  wonder,  and  know 
.its  full  dimensions — it's  name  is  '  humbug.'  " 

You  reply. 

"  Men  of  great  force  of  mind,  and  large  medical  knowledge 
and  experience,  see  differently.  In  the  law,  similia  similiabus 
curanter,  they  perceive  more  than  a  mere  figment  of  the  imagi- 
nation, and  in  the  actual  results,  too  well  authenticated  for  dis- 
pute, evidence  of  a  mathematical  correctness  in  medical  science 
never  before  attained,  and  scarcely  hoped  for  by  its  most  ardent 
devotees." 

But  he  cries, 

"  Humbug  !  Humbug !  All  humbug !  I  know.  I've  looked 
at  it.  I  understand  its  worth,  and  that  is — just  nothing  at  all. 
Talk  to  me  of  any  thing  else  and  I'll  listen  to  you — but,  for 
mercy's  sake,  don't  expect  me  to  swallow  at  a  gulp  any  thing 
of  this  sort,  for  I  can't  do  it.  I'd  rather  believe  in  Animal  Mag- 
netism. Why,  I  saw  one  of  these  new  lights  in  medicine,  who 
was  called  in  to  a  child  with  the  croup,  actually  put  two  or 
three  little  white  pellets  upon  its  tongue,  no  larger  than  a  pin's 
head,  and  go  away  with  as  much  coolness  as  if  he  were  not  leav- 
ing the  poor  little  sufferer  to  certain  death.  '  For  Heaven's 
sake  !'  said  I,  to  the  parents,  *  aint  you  going  to  have  any  thing 
done  for  that  child  ?'  '  The  doctor  has  just  given  it  medicine,' 
they  replied.  '  He  has  done  all  that  is  required.'  I  was  so  out 
of  patience  with  them  for  being  such  consummate  fools,  that  I  put 
on  my  hat  and  walked  out  of  the  house  without  saying  a  word. 

"  Did  the  child  die  ?"  you  ask. 

"  It  happened,  by  the  merest  chance,  to  escape  death.  It's 
constitution  was  too  strong  for  the  grim  destroyer." 


358  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  Was  nothing  else  done  ?"  you  further  ask.  "  No  medicines 
but  Homoeopathic  powders  ?" 

"  No.     They  persevered  to  the  last.' 

"  The  child  was  well  in  two  or  three  days  I  suppose  ?"  you 
remark. 

"  Yes,"  he  replies,  a  little  coldly. 

"Children  are  not  apt  to  recover  from  an  attack  of  croup 
without  medicine."  He  forgets  himself  and  answers — 

"  But  I  don't  believe  it  was  a  real  case  of  croup.  It  couldn't 
have  been." 

And  so  Mr.  Wiseacre  treats  almost  every  thing  that  makes 
its  appearance.  Not  because  he  understands  all  about  it,  but 
because  he  knows  nothing  about  it.  It  is  his  very  ignorance  of  a 
matter  that  makes  him  dogmatic.  He  knows  nothing  of  the 
distinction  between  truth  and  the  appearance  of  truth.  So  fond 
is  he  of  talking  and  showing  off  his  superior  intelligence  and 
acumen,  that  he  is  never  a  listener  in  any  company,  unless  by  a 
kind  of  compulsion,  and  then  he  rarely  hears  any  thing,  in  the 
eagerness  he  feels  to  get  in  his  word.  Usually  he  keeps  sensi- 
ble men  silent  in  hopeless  astonishment  at  the  very  boldness  of 
his  ignorance. 

But  Mr.  Wiseacre  was  caught  napping  once  in  his  life,  and 
that  completely.  He  was  entrapped  ;  not  taken  in  open  day, 
with  a  fair  field  before  him.  And  it  would  be  easy  to  entrap 
him  at  almost  any  time,  and  with  almost  any  humbug,  if  the 
game  were  worth  the  trouble  ;  for,  in  the  light  of  his  own  mind, 
he  cannot  see  far.  His  mental  vision  is  not  particularly  clear ; 
else  he  would  not  so  often  cry  "  humbug,"  where  wiser  men 
stop  to  examine  and  reflect. 

A  quiet,  thoughtful-looking  man  once  brought  to  Mr.  Wise- 
acre a  letter  of  introduction.  His  name  was  Redding.  The  let- 
ter mentioned  that  he  was  the  discoverer  of  a  wonderful  mechani- 
cal power,  for  which  he  was  about  taking  out  letters  patent.  What 
it  was,  the  introductory  epistle  did  not  say,  nor  did  Redding 
communicate  any  thing  relative  to  the  nature  of  the  discovery, 
although  asked  to  do  so.  There  was  something  about  this  man 
that  interested  Wiseacre.  He  bore  the  marks  of  a  superior  in- 
tellect, and  his  manners  commanded  respect.  As  Wiseacre 
showed  him  particular  attention,  he  frequently  called  in  to  see 
him  at  his  store,  and  sometimes  spent  an  evening  with  him  at 
his  dwelling.  The  more  Wiseacre  saw  of  him,  and  the  more 


HALF-LENGTHS    IN    OUTLINE.  359 

he  heard  him  converse,  the  higher  did  he  rise  in  his  opinion. 
At  length  Redding,  in  a  moment  of  confidence,  imparted  his  se- 
cret. He  had  discovered  perpetual  motion !  This  announce- 
ment was  made  after  a  long  and  learned  disquisition  on  mechan- 
ical laws,  in  which  the  balancing  of  and  the  reproduction  of 
forces,  and  all  that,  was  opened  to  the  wondering  ears  of  Wise- 
acre, who,  although  he  pretended  to  comprehend  every  thing 
clearly,  saw  it  all  only  in  a  very  confused  light.  He  knew,  in 
fact,  nothing  whatever  of  mechanical  forces.  All  here  was,  to 
him,  an  untrodden  field.  His  confidence  in  Redding,  and  his 
consciousness  that  he  was  a  man  of  great  intellectual  power, 
took  away  all  doubt  as  to  the  correctness  of  what  he  stated. 
For  once  he  was  sure  that  a  great  discovery  had  been  made 
—  that  a  new  truth  had  dawned  upon  the  world.  Of  this 
he  was  more  than  ever  satisfied  when  he  was  shown  the  ma- 
chine itself,  in  motion,  with  its  wonderful  combinations  of 
mechanical  forces,  and  heard  Redding  explain  the  principles  of 
its  action. 

"  Wonderful !  wonderful !"  was  now  exchanged  for  "  Hum- 
bug !  humbug !"  If  any  body  had  told  him  that  some  one  had 
discovered  perpetual  motion,  he  would  have  laughed  at  him,  and 
cried  "humbug!"  You  couldn't  have  hired  him  even  to  look 
at  it.  But  his  natural  incredulity  had  been  gained  over  by  a 
different  process.  His  confidence  had  first  been  won  by  a  spe- 
cious exterior,  his  reason  captivated  by  statements  and  arguments 
that  seemed  like  truth,  and  his  senses  deceived  by  appearances. 
Not  that  there  was  any  design  to  deceive  him  in  particular — he 
only  happened  to  be  the  first  included  in  a  large  number,  whose 
credulity  was  to  be  taxed  pretty  extensively. 

"  You  will  exhibit  it,  of  course  ?"  he  said  to  Redding,  after 
he  had  been  admitted  to  a  sight  of  the  extraordinary  ma- 
chine. 

"  This  is  too  insignificant  an  affair,"  replied  Redding.  "  It 
will  not  impress  the  public  mind  strongly  enough.  It  will  not 
give  them  a  truly  adequate  idea  of  the  force  attainable  by  this 
new  motive  power.  No — I  shall  not  let  the  public  fully  into 
my  secret  yet.  I  expect  to  reap  from  it  the  largest  fortune  ever 
made  by  any  man  in  this  country,  and  I  shall  not  run  any  risks 
in  the  outset  by  a  false  move.  The  results  that  must  follow  its 
right  presentation  to  the  public  cannot  be  calculated.  It  will 
entirely  supersede  steam  and  water  power  in  mills,  boats,  and 


360  SKETCHES   OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

on  railroads,  because  it  will  be  cheaper  by  half.  But  I  need 
not  tell  you  this,  for  you  have  the  sagacity  to  comprehend  it 
all  yourself.  You  have  seen  the  machine  in  operation,  and  you 
fully  understand  the  principle  upon  which  it  acts." 

"  How  long  will  it  take  you  to  construct  such  a  machine  as 
you  think  is  required  ?"  asked  Wiseacre. 

"  "  It  could  be  done  in  six  months  if  I  had  the  means.  But, 
like  all  other  inventors,  I  am  poor.  If  I  could  associate  with 
me  some  man  of  capital,  I  would  willingly  share  with  him  the 
profits  of  my  discovery,  which  will  be,  in  the  end,  immense." 

"  How  much  money  will  you  need  ?"  asked  Wiseacre,  al- 
ready beginning  to  burn  with  a  desire  for  a  part  of  the  immense 
returns. 

"  Two  or  three  thousand  dollars.  If  I  could  find  any  one  wil- 
ling to  invest  that  moderate  sum  of  money  now,  I  would  guar- 
antee to  return  him  four  fold  in  less  than  two  years,  and  insure 
him  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  ten  years.  But  men  who 
have  money  generally  think  a  bird  in  the  hand  worth  ten  in  the 
bush ;  and  with  them,  almost  every  thing  not  actually  in  pos- 
session is  looked  upon  as  in  the  bush." 

Mr.  Wiseacre  sat  thoughtful  for  some  moments.  Then  he 
asked, 

"  How  much  must  you  have  immediately  ?" 

"  About  five  hundred  dollars,  and  at  least  five  hundred  dol- 
lers  a  month  until  the  model  is  completed." 

"  Perhaps  I  might  do  it,"  said  Wiseacre,  after  another  thought- 
ful pause. 

"  I  should  be  most  happy  if  you  could,"  quickly  responded 
Redding.  "  There  is  no  man  with  whom  I  had  rather  share  the 
benefits  of  this  great  discovery  than  yourself.  Whosoever  goes 
into  it  with  me  is  sure  to  make  an  immense  fortune." 

Wiseacre  no  longer  hesitated.  The  five  hundred  dollars  were 
advanced,  and  the  new  model  commenced.  As  to  its  progress, 
and  the  exact  amount  it  cost  in  construction,  he  was  not  accu- 
rately advised,  but  one  thing  he  knew — he  had  to  draw  five 
hundred  dollars  out  of  his  business  every  month;  and  this  he 
found  not  always  the  most  convenient  operation  in  the  world. 

At  length  the  model  was  completed.  When  shown  to  Wise- 
acre, it  did  not  seem  to  be  upon  the  grand  scale  he  had  expec- 
ted ;  nor  did  it,  to  his  eyes,  look  as  if  its  construction  had  cost 
two  or  three  thousand  dollars.  But  Mr.  Redding  was  such  a 


HALF-LENGTHS    IN    OUTLINE.  361 

fair  man,  that  no  serious  doubts  had  a  chance  to  array  them- 
selves against  him. 

Two  or  three  scientific  gentlemen  were  first  admitted  to  a 
view  of  the  machine.  They  examined  it ;  heard  Redding  ex- 
plained the  principle  upon  which  it  acted,  and  were  shown  the 
beautiful  manner  in  which  the  reproduction  of  forces  were  ob- 
tained. Some  shrugged  their  shoulders ;  some  said  they  wouldn't 
believe  their  own  eyes  in  regard  to  perpectual  motion — that  the 
thing  was  a  physical  impossibility ;  while  others  half  doubted 
and  half  believed.  With  all  these  skeptics  and  half-skeptics, 
Wiseacre  was  out  of  all  patience.'  Seeing,  he  said,  was  believ- 
ing ;  and  he  wouldn't  give  a  fig  for  a  man  who  couldn't  rely 
upon  the  evideuce  of  his  own  senses. 

At  length  Redding's  great  achievement  in  mechanics  was  an- 
nounced to  the  public,  and  his  model  opened  for  exhibition.  Free 
tickets  were  sent  to  editors,  and  liberal  advertisements  inserted 
in  their  papers.  The  gentlemen  of  the  press  examined  the  ma- 
chine, and  pretty  generally  pronounced  it  a  very  singular  affair 
certainly,  and,  as  far  as  they  could  judge,  all  that  it  pretended 
to  be.  Gradually  that  portion  of  the  public  interested  in  such 
matters,  awoke  from  the  indifference  felt  on  the  first  announce- 
ment of  the  discovery,  and  began  to  look  at  and  enter  into  warm 
discussions  about  the  machine.  Some  believed,  but  the  majori- 
ty either  doubted  or  denied  that  it  was  perpetual  motion.  A  few 
boldly  affirmed  that  there  was  some  trick,  and  that  it  would  be 
discovered  in  the  end. 

Toward  the  lukewarm,  the  doubting,  and  the  denying,  Wise- 
acre was  in  direct  antagonism.  He  had  no  sort  of  patience  with 
them.  At  all  times  and  in  all  places  he  boldly  took  the  affir- 
mative in  regard  to  the  discovery  of  perpetual  motion,  and  showed 
no  quarter  to  any  one  who  was  bold  enough  to  doubt. 

Among  those  who  could  not  believe  the  evidence  of  his  own 
senses,  was  an  eminent  natural  philosopher,  who  visited  the  ma- 
chine almost  every  day,  and  as  often  conversed  with  Redding 
about  the  new  principle  in  mechanics  which  he  had  discovered 
and  applied.  The  theory  was  specious,  and  yet  opposed  to  it 
was  the  unalterable,  ever-potent  force  of  gravitation,  which  he 
saw  must  overcome  all  so  called  self-existant  motion.  The  more 
he  thought  about  it,  and  the  oftener  he  looked  at  and  examined 
Redding's  machine,  and  talked  with  the  inventor,  the  more  con- 
fused did  his  mind  become.  At  length,  after  obtaining  the  most 
31 


362  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

accurate  information  in  regard  to  the  construction  of  the  machine, 
he  set  to  work  and  made  "one  precisely  like  it ;  but  it  wouldn't 
go.  Satisfied  now,  that  there  was  imposture,  he  resolved  to  fer- 
ret it  out.  There  was  some  force  beyond  the  machine  he  was 
convinced.  Communicating  his  suspicions  to  a  couple  of  friends, 
he  was  readily  joined  by  them  in  a  proposed  effort  to  find  out 
the  true  secret  of  the  motion  imparted  to  the  machine.  He  had 
noticed  that  Redding  had  another  room  adjoining  the  one  in 
which  the  model  was  exhibited,  and  that  upon  the  door  was 
written  "  No  admittance."  Into  this  he  determined  to  pene- 
trate— and  he  put  this  determination  into  practice,  accompanied 
by  two  friends,  on  the  first  favorable  opportunity.  Fortunately, 
it  happened  that  the  door  leading  to  this  room  was  without  the 
door  of  the  one  leading  into  the  exhibition-room.  While  Red- 
ding was  engaged  in  showing  the  machine  to  a  pretty  large  com- 
pany, including  Wiseacre,  wrho  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  there, 
the  explorers  withdrew,  and  finding  the  key  in  the  door,  entered 
quietly  the  adjoining  room,  which  they  took  care  to  fasten  on  the 
inside.  The  only  suspicious  object  here  was  a  large  closet. 
This  was  locked  ;  but  as  the  intention  had  been  to  make  a  pret- 
ty thorough  search,  a  short,  strong,  steel  crowbar  was  soon  pro- 
duced from  beneath  a  cloak,  and  the  door  in  due  time  made  to 
yield.  Wonderful  discovery  !  There  sat  a  man  with  a  little 
table  by  his  side,  upon  which  was  a  dim  lamp,  a  plate  of  bread 
and  cheese,  and  a  mug  of  beer.  He  was  engaged  in  turning  a 
wheel ! 

The  machine  stopped  instantly  and  would  not  go  on,  much  to 
the  perplexity  and  alarm  of  the  inventor.  Wiseacre  was  deeply 
disturbed.  In  the  midst  of  the  murmur  of  surprise  and  disap- 
probation that  followed,  a  man  suddenly  entered  the  room,  and 
cried  out  in  a  low  voice, 

"  It's  all  humbug  !  We've  discovered  the  cause  of  the  motion. 
Come  and  see !" 

All  rushed  out  after  the  man,  and  entered  the  room  over  the 
door  of  which  was  written  so  conspicuously  "  No  admittance." 
No,  not  all — Redding  passed  on  down  stairs,  and  was  never 
again  heard  of! 

The  scene  that  followed  we  need  not  describe.  The  poor 
laborer  at  the  wheel,  for  a  dollar  a  day,  had  like  to  have  been 
broken  on  his  wheel,  but  the  crowd  in  mercy  spared  him.  As 
for  poor  Wiseacre,  who  had  never  been  humbugged  in  his  life, 


HALF-LENGTHS    IN    OUTLINE.  363 

he  was  so  completely  "  used  up"  by  this  undreamed  of  result, 
that  he  could  hardly  look  any  body  in  the  face  for  two  or  three 
months.  But  he  got  over  it 'some  time  since,  and  is  now  a  more 
thorough  disbeliever  in  all  new  things  than  before. 

"  You  don't  humbug  me!"  is  his  stereotyped  answer  to  all 
announcements  of  new  discoveries.  Even  in  regard  to  the  mag- 
netic telegraph  he  is  still  quite  skeptical,  and  shrugs  his  should- 
ers, and  elevates  his  eyebrows,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  It'll  blow 
up  one  of  these  times,  mark  my  word  for  it !"  Nobody  has  yet 
been  able  to  persuade  him  to  go  to  the  Exchange  and  look  at 
the  operation  of  the  batteries  there  and  see  for  himself.  He 
does'nt  really  believe  in  the  thing,  and  smiles  inwardly,  as  the 
rough  poles  and  naked  wires  stare  him  in  the  face  while  passing 
along  the  street.  He  looks  confidently  to  see  them  converted 
into  poles  for  scaffolding  before  twelve  months  pass  away. 


THE   QUILTING    PARTY. 


Our  young  ladies  of  the  present  generation  know  little  of  the 
mysteries  of  "  Irish  chain,"  "  rising  star,"  "  block  work,"  or 
"  Job's  trouble,"  and  would  be  as  likely  to  mistake  a  set  of 
quilting  frames  for  clothes  poles  as  for  any  thing  else.  It  was 
different  in  our  younger  days.  Half  a  dozen  handsome  patch- 
work quilts  were  indispensable  then  as  a  marriage  portion ; 
quite  as  much  so  as  a  piano  or  guitar  is  at  present.  And  the 
quilting  party  was  equally  indicative  of  the  coming-out  and  be- 
ing "  in  the  market,"  as  the  fashionable  gatherings  together  of 
the  times  that  be. 

As  for  the  difference  in  the  custom,  we  are  not  disposed  to 
sigh  over  it  as  indicative  of  social  deterioration.  We  do  not  be- 
long to  the  class  who  believe  that  society  is  retrograding,  be- 
cause every  thing  is  not  as  it  was  in  the  earlier  days  of  our  life- 
history.  And  yet — it  may  be  a  weakness  ;  but  early  associa- 
tions exercise  a  powerful  influence  over  us.  We  have  never 
enjoyed  ourselves  with  the  keen  zest  and  heartiness,  in  any  com- 
pany, that  we  have  experienced  at  the  old-fashioned  quilting 
party.  But  we  were  young  then,  and  every  sense  perfect  in  its 
power  to  receive  enjoyment.  No  care  weighed  down  the  spirit ; 
no  grief  was  in  the  heart  ;  no  mistakes  had  occurred  to  sober 
the  feelings  with  unavailing  regrets.  Life  was  in  the  beaut}-  and 
freshness  of  its  spring  time ;  in  the  odor  of  its  lovely  blossoms. 
We  had  but  to  open  our  eyes — to  touch,  to  taste — to  feel  an  ex- 
quisite delight.  Of  the  world  we  knew  nothing  beyond  the 
quiet  village  ;  and  there  we  found  enough  to  fill  the  measure  of 
our  capacity.  In  a  wider  sphere  we  have  not  found  greater  so- 
cial pleasures ;  though  in  a  more  extended  usefulness  there  has 

364 


THE    QUILTING   PARTY.  365 

come  a  different  source  of  enjoyment — purer  and  more  elevating 
to  the  heart. 

But  this  is  all  too  grave  for  our  subject.  It  is  not  the  frame 
of  mind  in  which  to  enjoy  a  quilting  party.  And  yet,  who  can 
look  back  upon  the  early  times  without  a  browner  hue  upon  his 
feelings  ? 

There  was  one  quilting  party — can  we  ever  forget  it  ?  Twenty 
years  have  passed  since  the  time.  We  were  young  then,  and 
had  not  tarried  long  at  Jericho !  Twenty  years  !  It  seems  but 
yesterday.  With  the  freshness  of  the  present  it  is  all  before  us 
now. 

In  our  village  there  dwelt  a  sweet  young  girl,  who  was  the 
favorite  of  all.  When  invitations  to  a  quilting  party  at  Mrs. 
Willing's  came,  you  may  be  sure  there  was  a  flutter  of  delight 
all  around.  The  quilting  was  Amy's,  of  course,  and  Amy  Wil- 
ling was  to  be  the  bright  particular  star  in  the  social  firmament. 
It  was  to  be  Amy's  first  quilting,  moreover;  and  the  sign  that 
she  was  looking  forward  to  the  matrimonial  goal,  was  hailed 
with  a  peculiar  pleasure  by  more  than  one  of  the  village  swains, 
who  had  worshipped  the  dawning  beauty  at  a  respectful  dis- 
tance. 

We  had  been  to  many  quilting  parties  up  to  this  time ;  but 
more  as  a  boy  than  as  a  man.  Our  enjoyment  had  always  been 
unembarrassed  by  any  peculiar  feelings.  We  could  play  at 
blind  man's  buff,  hunt  the  slipper,  and  pawns,  and  not  only 
clasp  the  little  hands  of  our  fair  playfellows,  but  even  touch  their 
warm  lips  with  our  own,  and  not  experience  a  heart-emotion  deep- 
er than  the  ripple  made  on  the  smooth  water  by  a  playful  breeze. 
But  there  had  come  a  change.  There  was  something  in  the 
eyes  of  our  young  companions,  as  we  looked  into  them,  that  had 
a  different  meaning  from  the  old  expression,  and  particularly 
was  this  true  with  Amy.  Into  her  eyes  we  could  no  longer  gaze 
steadily.  As  to  the  reason,  we  were  ignorant ;  yet  so  it  was. 

The  invitation  to  attend  her  quilting  was  an  era ;  for  it  pro- 
duced emotions  of  so  marked  a  character  that  they  were  never 
forgotten.     There  was  an  uneasy  fluttering  of  the  heart  as  the 
time  drew  near,  and  a  pressure  upon  the  feelings  that  a  deep, 
sighing  breath,  failed  to  remove.     The  more  we  thought  about 
the  quilting,  the  more  restless  did  we  grow,  and   the  more  con- 
scious that  the  part  we  were  about  to  play  would  be  one  of  pecu 
liar  embarrassment. 
31* 


366  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

At  last  the  evening  came.  We  had  never  shrunk  from  going 
alone  into  any  company  before.  But  now  we  felt  that  it  was 
necessary  to  be  sustained  from  without ;  and  such  sustentation 
we  sought  in  the  company  of  the  good-natured,  self-composed 
bachelor  of  the  village,  who  went  any  where  and  every  where 
freely  and  without  apparent  emotion. 

"You're  going  to  Amy  Willing's  quilting?"  said  we  to 
L ,  on  the  day  before  the  party. 

"  Certainly,"  was  his  reply. 

"Will  you  wait  until  we  call  for  you?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  was  as  good-naturedly  answered. 

"  So  much  gained,"  thought  we,  when  alone. 

In  the  shadow  of  his  presence  we  would  be  able  to  make  our 
debut  with  little  embarrassment.  What  would  we  not  have  then 
given  for  L 's  self-possession  and  easy  confidence  ! 

When  the  time  came,  we  called,  as  had  been  arranged,  upon 

L .  To  our  surprise,  we  found  no  less  than  four  others,  as 

bashful  as  we,  waiting  his  convoy.  L very  good  humor- 

edly — he  never  did  an  ill-natured  thing  in  his  life — assumed  the 
escort,  and  we  all  set  off  for  the  cottage  of  Mrs.  Willing.  How 
the  rest  felt  we  know  not,  but  as  for  our  own  heart,  it  throbbed 
slower  and  heavier  at  each  step,  until,  by  the  time  the  cottage 
was  reached,  the  pulses  in  our  ears  were  beating  audibly.  We 
could  not  understand  this.  It  had  never  been  so  before. 

The  sun  still  lingered  above  the  horizon  when  we  came  in 
sight  of  the  cottage — fashionable  hours  were  earlier  then  than 

now.  On  arriving  at  the  door,  L entered  first,  as  a  mattei 

of  course,  and  we  all  followed  close  in  his  rear,  in  order  to  se- 
cure the  benefit  of  his  countenance.  The  room  was  full  of  girls, 
who  were  busy  in  binding  Amy's  quilt,  which  was  already  out 
of  the  frame,  and  getting  all  ready  for  the  evening's  sport.  There 

was  no  one  equal  to  L— for  taking  the  wire  edge  from  off  the 

feelings  of  a  promiscuous  company,  and  giving  a  free  and  easy 
tone  to  the  social  intercourse,  that  would  otherwise  have  been 
constrained  and  awkward.  In  a  little  while  the  different  parties 
who  had  entered  under  his  protection,  began  to  feel  at  home 
among  the  merry  girls.  It  was  not  long  before  another  and  an- 
other came  in,  until  the  old-fashioned  parlor,  with  its  old-fash- 
ioned furniture,  was  filled,  and  the  but  half-bound  quilt  for- 
cibly taken  from  the  hands  of  the  laughing  seamstresses,  and 
put  "  out  of  sight  and  out  of  mind." 


ARRIVAL  OF  THE  BEAUX. 


THE    QUILTING   PARTY.  367 

The  bright  particular  star  of  that  evening  was  Amy  Willing 
— gentle,  quiet,  loving  Amy  Willing.  There  was  a  warmer 
glow  upon  her  cheeks  and  a  deeper  tenderness  in  her  beautiful 
eyes,  than  they  had  ever  worn  before.  In  gazing  upon  her,  how 
the  heart  moved  from  its  very  depths !  No  long  time  passed 
before  we  were  by  the  side  of  Amy,  and  our  eyes  resting  in  hers 
with  an  earnestness  of  expression  that  caused  them  to  droop  to 
the  floor.  When  the  time  for  redeeming  pawns  came,  and  it 
was  our  turn  to  call  out  from  the  circle  of  beauty  a  fair  partner, 
the  name  of  Amy  fell  from  our  lips,  which  were  soon  pressed, 
glowing,  upon  those  of  the  blushing  maiden.  It  was  the  first 
warm  kiss  of  love.  How  it  thrilled,  exquisitely,  to  the  very 
heart !  Our  lips  had  often  met  before — kissing  was  then  a  fash- 
ionable amusement — but  never  as  at  this  time.  Soon  it  became 
Amy's  place  to  take  the  floor.  She  must  "  kiss  the  one  she 
loved  best."  What  a  moment  of  suspense !  Stealthily  her  eyes 
wandered  around  the  room ;  and  then  her  long,  dark  lashes  lay 
quivering  on  her  beautiful  cheeks. 

"  Kiss  the  one  you  love  best,"  was  repeated  by  the  holder  of 
the  pawns. 

The  fringed  lids  were  again  raised,  and  again  her  eyes  went 
searching  around  the  room.  We  could  see  that  her  bosom  was 
rising  and  falling  more  rapidly  than  before.  Our  name  at  length 
came,  in  an  undertone,  from  her  smiling  lips.  What  a  happy 
rnoment !  The  envied  kiss  was  ours,  and  we  led  the  maiden  in 
triumph  from  the  floor. 

And,  to  us,  the  whole  evening  was  a  series  of  triumphs. 
Somehow  or  other,  Amy  was  by  our  side  and  Amy's  hand  in 
ours  oftenest  of  any.  We  did  not  talk  much — delicious  feelings 
sealed  our  lips.  But  we  knew  little  then  of  human  nature,  and 
less  of  woman's  human  nature.  And  as  little  of  all  this  knew  a 
certain  young  man  who  was  present,  and  who,  more  sober  and 
silent  than  any,  joined  in  the  sports  of  the  evening,  but  with  no 
apparent  zest.  Amy  never  called  him  out  when  she  was  on  the 
floor ;  nor  did  he  mention  her  name  when  the  privilege  of  touch- 
ing some  maiden's  lips  with  his  own  was  assigned  him. 

He  was  first  to  retire  ;  and  then  we  noticed  a  change  in  Amy. 
Her  voice  was  lower,  her  manner  more  subdued,  and  there  was 
a  thoughtful,  absent  expression  in  her  face. 

A  few  weeks  later,  and  this  was  all  explained.  Edward  Mar- 
tin was  announced  in  the  village  as  Amy's  accepted  lover.  We 


368  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

did  not,  we  could  not,  we  would  not,  accredit  the  fact.  It  was 
impossible !  Had  she  not  called  us  out  at  the  quilting  party, 
as  the  one  she  "  loved  best  ?"  Had  not  her  hand  been  often- 
est  in  ours,  and  our  lips  oftenest  upon  hers  ?  It  could  not 
be !  Yet  time  proved  the  truth  of  the  rumor ; — ere  another 
twelve-month  went  by,  Amy  Willing  was  a  bride.  We  were  at 
the  wedding ;  but  as  silent  and  sober  as  was  Edward  Martin  at 
the  quilting.  The  tables  were  turne'd  against  us,  and  hopelessly 
turned. 

Ah,  well !  More  than  twenty  years  have  passed  since  then. 
The  quiltings,  the  corn-huskings,  the  merry-makings  in  the 

village  of  M are  not  forgotten.  Nor  is  Amy  Willing  and 

the  party  forgotten,  as  this  brief  sketch  assuredly  testifies. 
Twenty  years.  How  many  changes  have  come  in  that  period  ! 

And  Amy,  where  is  she  ?  When  last  at  M we  saw  a  sweet 

young  maiden,  just  in  the  dawn  of  womanhood,  and,  for  the 
moment,  it  seemed  as  if  we  were  back  again  in  the  old  time — 
the  intervening  space  but  a  dream.  Her  name  was  Amy.  It 
was  not  our  Amy.  She  had  passed  away,  leaving  a  bud  of 
beauty  to  bloom  in  her  place. 

Our  sketch  of  a  merry-making  has  turned  out  graver  than 
was  intended.  But  it  is  difficult  for  the  mind  to  go  back  in 
reminiscence,  and  not  take  a  sober  hue.  We  will  not  attempt 
to  write  it  over  again,  for,  in  that  case,  it  might  be  graver  still. 


IF  YOU  WILL  DO  NO  GOOD,  DO 
NO  HARM. 


"  I  am  sorry,  friend  Grayson,"  said  an  old  acquaintance  of  a 
tavern  keeper,  meeting  him  after  an  absence  of  nearly  ten  years, 
"  not  to  find  you  in  a  better  business." 

The  two  men  had  just  shaken  hands  warmly  at  the  door  of 
Gray  son's  drinking  house,  where  they  happened  to  encounter 
each  other ;  and  were  now  sitting  together  at  a  table  just  inside 
of  the  bar  room. 

"What  will  you  have  to  drink?"  was  the  tavern  keeper's 
question,  almost  as  soon  as  they  were  within. 

"  Thank  you !  Nothing  at  all,"  was  replied. 

"  Oh !  you  must  have  something,"  said  Grayson.  "  Let  us 
have  one  drink  together  for  old  acquaintance  sake." 

"  Not  a  drop,"  replied  the  man,  whose  name  was  Winters. 
"  Not  a  drop  of  any  thing." 

The  emphatic  manner  in  which  this  was  said  rather  threw  a 
damper  over  the  tavern-keeper's  feelings.  The  two  men  looked 
earnestly  into  each  other's  faces,  and  there  was  a  brief  silence, 
which  was  broken  by  the  words — 

"  I'm  sorry,  friend  Grayson,  not  to  find  you  in  a  better  busi- 
ness." 

"Why  so?  I'm  sure  I  find  it  a  good  business  enough." 

"  It  may  seem  good  for  you  in  one  way,  but  it  is  not  good  for 
others." 

"  I've  nothing  to  do  with  others,"  replied  Grayson.  "  Every 
man  must  look  out  for  himself  in  this  world." 

"  True  ;  but  in  looking  out  for  ourselves  we  should  be  careful 
not  to  injure  others.  If  you  will  do  no  good,  my  old  friend,  do 
no  harm." 


370  SKETCHES   OF  LIFE   AND   CHARACTER. 

Grayson  did  not  appear,  altogether  to  like  this. 
"  I'm  sure  I  don't  wish  harm  to  any  one,"  was  his  reply. 
"  And  yet,  you  do  it  daily." 
«  Harm  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  I  say  again,  if  you  will  do  no  good,  do  no  harm. 
But,  you  may  do  a  great  deal  of  good,  if  you  will.  You  have 
every  ability  to  serve  the  common  good.  A  mind  to  conceive 
and  hands  to  execute  things  useful." 

"  I  wish  evil  to  no  one,"  said  Grayson,  a  little  annoyed  by  the 
freedom  of  his  old  acquaintance.  "  But,  as  to  being  so  gene- 
rous as  to  spend  my  time  in  looking  after  other  people's  interest, 
is  what  I  don't  profess." 

"  Society  don't  ask  you  to  do  that.  Every  man  should  be 
competent  to  take  care  of  himself.  Only,  don't  do  harm.  Don't 
pull  down  what  your  neighbors  build.  Don't  benefit  yourself  at 
the  expense  of  others." 

"  You  talk  very  strangely,  friend  Winters,"  said  the  tavern 
keeper. 

"  And  do  you  really  think  that  you  are  doing  no  harm  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  that  I  wrong  any  one.  I  don't  compel  men  to 
make  beasts  of  themselves." 

"  Although  you  assist  in  the  work.  It  seems  to  me,  that  you 
might  find  employment  that  would  be  quite  as  agreeable,  and  pro- 
ductive of  less  evil  consequences.  Let  me  take  away  the  veil 
that  seems  to  be  hanging  before  your  eyes  and  show  you  what 
you  have  done.  I  have  only  been  in  the  city  two  days,  after  an 
absence  of  ten  years ;  but  I  have  been  here  long  enough  to  see 
more  than  you  have,  if  no  sign  of  the  harm  you  are  doing  has 
presented  itself  to  your  eyes. — You  remember  dear  little  Lilly 
Graham,  the  school's  favorite,  when  we  were  boys  ?" 

"  Very  well,"  replied  the  tavern  keeper.  But  his  countenance 
changed  as  he  answered  the  question. 

"We  all  loved  her,"  said  Winters  ?  "  Such  a  thing  as  an 
unkind  act  towards  Lilly  Graham  was  not  known  in  the  school. 
The  very  master  himself,  crabbed  and  cruel  as  he  was  some- 
times, never  scolded  nor  punished  Lilly.  You  remember  the 
day  she  fell  into  the  creek  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  And  how  you  were  first  to  jump  in  after  her,  with  all  your 
clothes  on,  and  bring  her  safely  to  the  shore.  You  were  so  proud 
and  happy  then !  Ah !  It  seems  but  yesterday  that  sweet  Lilly's 


IF  YOU  WILL  DO  NO  GOOD,  DO  NO  HARM.       371 

hand  was  in  mine  as  we  danced  in  the  ring  at  play  time,  or 
walked  home  together  when  our  lessons  were  said,  and  our  hard 
tasks  over  for  the  day.  Don't  you  remember  the  beautiful  watch- 
paper  Lilly  cut  for  you  in  token  of  her  gratitude  for  what  you 
had  done  ?" 

Grayson  replied  to  this  last  question  by  drawing  his  watch 
from  his  pocket  and  opening  the  case.  Within  lay  the  identical 
watch  paper.  Winters  gazed  at  the  little  token  of  other  times 
until  his  eye  grew  dim.  Then  drawing  a  deep  sigh,  he  said — 

"  Those  were  our  happiest  days,  Grayson,  because  they  were 
innocent.  As  we  depart  from,  innocence  we  depart  from  happi- 
ness. I  sometimes  wish  that  I  had  always  remained  a  child. 
But  this  is  weak  and  vain.  I  saw  Lilly  to-day." 

"  Ah  ?"  The  tavern  keeper  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair,  and 
his  countenance  was  troubled. 

"She  married  William  Edwards.  You  remember  him  of 
course  ?  He  was  our  schoolfellow." 

"Yes." 

"  He  is  dead." 

"  I  know." 

Winters  looked  steadily  into  the  face  of  Grayson. 

"  I  was  sorry  to  learn  that  he  died  a  drunkard.  When  I  left 
here,  he  was  one  of  the  steadiest  young  men  I  knew  in  the 
place." 

The  tavern  keeper  made  no  reply;  but  his  eyes  sunk  beneath 
the  gaze  of  his  old  friend,  and  rested  upon  the  floor. 

"  I  saw  Lilly  to-day,  as  I  said,"  resumed  Winters.  "  Alas  P 
how  was  she  changed.  —  when  I  parted  with  her  she  was  a 
beautiful,  happy-hearted  girl ;  I  found  her  a  drooping,  spirit- 
broken  widow,  with  three  orphan  children  clinging  to  her  for 
support." 

The  tavern  keeper  was  visibly  disturbed. 

"  She  spoke  of  you,"  said  Winters.  His  voice  was  changed, 
and  more  emphatic. 

"  Of  me  ?  What  did  she  say  of  me  ?"  enquired  Grayson,  with 
a  look  of  distress. 

"  She  said,"  and  the  voice  of  Winters  fell  into  a  low,  sad 
tone,  "  That  you  once  saved  her  life ;  but  it  would  have  been 
better,  if  you  had  let  the  waters  close  over  her  forever." 

A  deep,  oppressive  silence  followed. 

"  My  friend  Grayson,"  said  Winters,  rising.     "  If  you  will 


372  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

do  no  good,  do  no  harm.  For,  the  evil  that  flows  from  our  acts 
not  only  curses  others,  but  curses  ourselves  also.  I  would  not 
have  my  memory  darkened  by  the  shadow  that  must  rest  on 
yours  through  life  for  worlds.  Never  can  your  thoughts  go  back 
to  the  early  time,  when  Lilly,  like  a  beautiful  and  fragrant  blos- 
som was  by  your  side,  without  the  remembrance  that  you  were 
accessory  to  her  husband's  downfall,  and  the  ruin  of  her  hopes 
and  happiness  coming  in  to  sting  you  like  the  bite  of  an  adder. 
Let  me  repeat,  Grayson,  if  you  will  do  no  good,  do  no  harm. 
Better  dine  daily  on  a  crust  than  have  a  plague  spot  on  your 
memory.  What  we  do  in  the  present,  blesses  or  curses  our  fu- 
ture, and  no  after  act  can  remove  the  impression  that  is  made. 
We  may  repent  and  do  no  more  deeds  to  mar  with  bitter  recol- 
lections our  coming  years ;  but,  what  is  done  remains,  and  its 
record  on  memory's  page  cannot  be  obliterated." 

And  saying  this,  Winters  retired  and  left  the  tavern  keeper  to 
his  own  reflections. — What  they  were  may  be  gathered  from  the 
fact  that  bis  house  was  closed  on  the  next  day.  He  has  resolved 
at  least  to  do  no  more  harm,  if  he  can  do  no  good.  But  in 
ceasing  to  do  evil  he  will,  as  a  natural  consequence,  learn  to 
do  well. 


SPEAK  GENTLY. 


«  Speak  gently !    It  is  better  far 

To  rule  by  love  than  fear ; 
Speak  gently  !     Let  not  harsh  words  mar 

The  good  we  might  do  here." 

"  I  am  entirely  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  do  with  that  boy," 
said  Mrs.  Burton  to  her  husband,  with  much  concern  on  her  face, 
and  in  an  anxious  tone  of  voice.  "  I  never  yield  to  his  imperious 
temper  ;  I  never  indulge  him  in  anything ;  I  think  about  him  and 
care  about  him  all  the  time,  but  see  no  good  results." 

While  Mrs.  Burton  was  speaking,  a  bright,  active  boy,  eight 
years  of  age,  came  dashing  into  the  room,  and,  without  heeding 
any  one,  commenced  beating  with  two  large  sticks  against  one 
of  the  window  sills  and  making  a  deafening  noise. 

"  Incorrigible  boy  !"  exclaimed  his  mother,  going  quickly  up 
to  him  and  jerking  the  sticks  out  of  his  hand.  "  Can't  I  learn 
you  neither  manners  nor  decency  ?  I  have  told  you  a  hundred 
times  that  when  you  come  into  a  room  where  any  one  is  sitting 
you  must  be  quiet.  Go  up  stairs  this  moment,  and  don't  let  me 
see  your  face  for  an  hour !" 

The  boy  became  sulky  in  an  instant,  and  stood  where  he  was, 
pouting  sadly. 

"  Did  you  hear  what  I  said  ?     Go  up  stairs  this  moment !" 

Mrs.  Burton  spoke  in  a  very  angry  tone,  and  looked  quite  as 
angry  as  she  spoke. 

Slowly  moved  the  boy  towards  the  door,  a  scowl  darkening 
his  face,  that  was  but  a  moment  before  so  bright  and  cheerful. 
His  steps  were  too  deliberate  for  the  over-excited  feelings  of  the 
mother ;  she  sprang  towards  him,  and  seizing  him  by  the  arm 
pushed  him  from  the  room  and  closed  the  door  loudly  after  him. 

"  I  declare,  I  am  out  of  all  heart !"  she  exclaimed,  sinking 
32  373 


374  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE    AND   CHARACTER. 

down  upon  a  chair.  "It  is  line  upon  line  and  precept  upon  pre- 
cept, but  all  to  no  good  purpose.  That  boy  will  break  my  heart 
yet!" 

Mr.  Burton  said  nothing,  but  he  saw  plainly  enough  that  it 
was  not  all  the  child's  fault.  He  doubted  the  use  of  coming  out 
and  saying  this  unequivocally,  although  he  had  often  and  often 
been  on  the  point  of  doing  so,  involuntarily.  He  knew  the  tem- 
per of  his  wife  so  well,  and  her  peculiar  sensitiveness  about  every 
thing  that  looked  like  charging  any  fault  upon  herself,  that  he 
feared  more  harm  than  good  would  result  from  an  attempt  on  his 
part  to  show  her  that  she  was  much  more  than  half  to  blame  for 
the  boy's  perverseness  of  temper. 

Once  or  twice  the  little  fellow  showed  himself  at  the  door,  but 
was  driven  back  with  harsh  words  until  the  hour  for  tea  arrived. 
The  sound  of  the  tea-bell  caused  an  instant  oblivion  of  all  the 
disagreeable  impressions  made  on  his  mind.  His  little  feet  an- 
swered the  welcome  summons  with  a  clatter  that  stunned  the 
ears  of  his  mother. 

"  Go  back,  sir  !"  she  said  sternly,  as  he  burst  open  the  dining- 
room  door  and  sent  it  swinging  with  a  loud  concussion  against 
the  wall,  "and  see  if  you  can't  walk  down  stairs  more  like  a 
boy  than  a  horse." 

Master  Harry  withdrew,  pouting  out  his  rosy  lips  to  the  dis- 
tance of  full  an  inch.  He  went  up  one  flight  of  stairs  and  then 
returned. 

"  Go  up  to  the  third  story  where  you  first  started  from  and 
come  down  quietly  all  the  way,  or  you  shall  not  have  a  mouthful 
of  supper." 

u  I  don't  want  to,"  whined  the  boy. 

"  Go  up,  I  tell  you,  this  instant,  or  I  will  send  you  to-bed 
without  anything  to  eat." 

This  was  a  threat  that  former  experience  had  taught  him  might 
be  executed,  and  so  he  deemed  it  better  to  submit  than  to  pay 
too  dearly  for  having  his  own  way.  The  distance  to  the  third 
story  was  made  in  a  few  light  springs,  and  then  he  came  patter- 
ing down  as  lightly,  and  took  his  place  at  the  table  quickly  but 
silently. 

"  There — there !  not  too  fast ;  you've  got  plenty  to  eat,  and 
time  enough  to  eat  it  in." 

Harry  settled  himself  down  to  the  table  as  quietly  as  his  mer- 
curial spirits  would  let  him,  and  tried  to  wait  until  he  was 


SPEAK   GENTLY..  375 

helped,  but  spite  of  his  efforts  to  do  so,  his  hand  went  over  into 
the  bread-basket.  A  look  from  his  mother  caused  him  to  drop 
the  slice  he  had  lifted ;  it  was  not  a  look  in  which  there  was 
much  affection.  While  waiting  to  be  helped,  his  hands  were 
busy  with  his  knife  and  fork,  making  a  most  unpleasant  clatter. 

"  Put  down  your  hands  !"  harshly  spoken,  remedied  this  evil, 
or  rather  sent  the  active  movement  from  the  little  fellow's  hands 
to  his  feet,  that  commenced  a  swinging  motion,  his  heels  striking 
noisily  against  the  chair. 

"  Keep  your  feet  still!"  caused  this  to  cease. 

After  one  or  two  more  reproofs,  the  boy  was  left  to  himself. 
As  soon  as  he  received  his  cup  of  tea  he  poured  the  entire 
contents  into  his  saucer,  and  then  tried  to  lift  it  steadily  to  his 
lips.  In  doing  so  he  spilled  one-third  of  the  contents  upon  the 
table-cloth. 

A  box  on  the  ears  and  a  storm  of  angry  words  rewarded  this 
feat. 

"  Haven't  I  told  you  over  and  over  again,  you  incorrigibly  bad 
boy  !  not  to  pour  the  whole  of  your  tea  into  your  saucer.  Just 
see  what  a  'mess'  you  have  made  with  that  clean  table-cloth.  I 
declare  !  I  am  out  of  all  manner  of  patience  with  you.  Go  'way 
from  the  table  this  instant !" 

Harry  went  crying  away,  not  in  anger,  but  in  grief.  He  had 
spilled  his  tea  by  accident.  His  mother  had  so  many  reproofs 
and  injunctions  to  make  that  the  bearing  of  them  all  in  mind 
was  a  thing  impossible.  As  to  pouring  out  all  of  his  tea  at  a 
time,  he  had  no  recollection  of  any  interdiction  on  that  subject, 
although  it  had  been  made  over  and  over  again  dozens  of  times. 
In  a  little  while  he  came  creeping  slowly  back  and  resumed  his 
place  at  the  table,  his  eyes  upon  his  mother's  face.  Mrs.  Burton 
was  sorry  that  she  had  sent  him  away  for  what  was  only  an  ac- 
cident ;  she  felt  that  she  had  hardly  been  just  to  the  thoughtless 
boy.  She  did  not,  therefore,  object  to  his  coming  back,  but  said, 
as  he  took  his  seat — "  Next  time  see  that  you  are  more  careful. 
I  have  told  you  again  and  again  not  to  fill  your  saucer  to  the 
brim  ;  you  never  can  do  it  without  spilling  the  tea  over  upon  the 
table-cloth.'' 

This  was  not  spoken  in  kindness. 

A  scene  somewhat  similar  to  this  was  enacted  at  every  meal, 
but  instead  of  improving  in  his  behavior  the  boy  grew  more  and 
more  heedless.  Mr.  Burton  rarely  said  anything  to  Harry  about 


376  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND   CHARACTER. 

his  unruly  manner,  but  when  he  did,  a  word  was  enough.  That 
word  was  always  mildly  yet  firmly  spoken.  He  did  not  think 
him  a  bad  boy  "or  difficult  to  manage — at  least  he  had  never 
found  him  so. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  what  to  do  with  that  child,"  said  Mrs.  Bur- 
ton, after  the  little  fellow  had  been  sent  to  bed  an  hour  before  his 
time,  in  consequence  of  some  violation  of  law  and  order ;  "  he 
makes  me  feel  unhappy  all  the  while.  I  dislike  to  be  scolding 
him  forever,  but  what  can  I  do  ?  If  I  did  not  curb  him  in  some 
way  there  would  be  no  living  in  the  house  with  him.  I  am 
afraid  he  will  cause  us  a  world  of  trouble." 

Mr.  Burton  sat  silent.  He  wanted  to  say  a  word  on  the  sub- 
ject, but  feared  that  its  effect  might  not  be  what  he  desired. 

"  I  wish  you  would  advise  me  what  to  do,  Mr.  Burton,"  his 
wife  said,  a  little  petulantly.  "  You  sit  and  don't  say  a  single 
word,  as  if  you  had  no  kind  of  interest  in  the  matter.  What 
am  I  to  do  ?  I  have  exhausted  all  my  own  resources,  and  feel 
completely  at  a  loss." 

"  There  is  a  way  which,  if  you  would  adopt  it,  I  think  might 
do  a  great  deal  of  good."  Mr.  Burton  spoke  with  a  slight  ap- 
pearance of  hesitation.  "  If  you  would  speak  gently  to  Harry, 
l  am  sure  you  would  be  able  to  manage  him  far  better  than  you 
do." 

Mrs.  Burton's  face  was  crimsoned  in  an  instant ;  she  felt  the 
reproof  deeply;  her  self-esteem  was  severely  wounded-. 

"Speak  gently,  indeed!"  she  replied.  "I  might  as  well 
speak  to  the  wind ;  I  am  scarcely  heard,  now,  at  the  top  of  my 
voice." 

Mr.  Burton  never  contended  with  his  wife.  She  would  have 
felt  better  sometimes  if  he  had  done  so,  for  then  she  could  have 
excused  herself  a  little.  His  words  were  few,  mildly  spoken, 
and  always  remembered.  He  had  expected  some  such  effect 
from  his  suggestion  of  a  remedy  in  .the  case  of  Harry,  and  was 
not,  therefore,  at  all  surprised  at  the  ebullition  it  produced.  On 
its  subsidence  he  believed  her  mind  would  be  more  transparent 
than  before,  and  so  it  was. 

As  her  husband  did  not  argue  the  matter  with  her  nor  say  any- 
thing that  was  calculated  to  keep  up  the  excitement  under  which 
she  was  laboring,  her  feelings  in  a  little  while  quieted  down  and 
her  thoughts  became  active.  The  words  "  speak  gently"  were 
constantly  in  her  mind,  and  there  was  a  reproving  import  in 


SPEAK    GENTLY.  377 

them.  On  going  to-bed  that  night  she  could  not  get  to  sleep  for 
several  hours  ;  her  mind  was  too  busily  engaged  in  reviewing 
her  conduct  towards  her  child.  She  clearly  perceived  that  she 
had  too  frequently  suffered  her  mind  to  get  excited  and  angry, 
and  that  she  was  too  often  annoyed  at  trifles  which  ought  to  have 
been  overlooked. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  been  unjust  to  my  child,"  she  sighed 
over  and  over  again,  turning  restlessly  upon  her  pillow. 

At  length  she  fell  asleep  and  dreamed  about  Harry.  She  saw 
him  lying  on  his  bed,  sick  and  apparently  near  to  death  ;  his 
pure,  round  cheeks,  where  health  had  strewed  her  glowing  blos- 
soms, were  pale  and  sunken  ;  his  eyes  were  hollow — the  weary 
lids  had  closed  over  them — he  lay  in  a  deep  sleep.  Mournfully 
she  stood  by  his  side  and  looked  upon  him  in  bitterness  of  spirit. 
Sadly  she  remembered  the  days  past  in  which  she  had  spoken 
in  harsh  and  angry  tones  to  her  boy,  when  kinder  words  would 
have  been  far  better.  In  the  anguish  of  her  soul,  bowed  down 
by  sorrow  and  a  reproving  conscience,  she  wept. 

When  she  again  looked  up  she  saw  that  a  change  had  come 
over  the  beloved  sleeper ;  the  glow  of  health  was  upon  his  cheek, 
and  every  vein  seemed  bounding  with  life  and  health,  but  he 
slumbered  still.  She  was  about  arousing  him,  when  a  hand  was 
laid  upon  her's;  she  turned — a  mild  face,  full  of  goodness  as  the 
face  of  an  angel,  looked  into  her  own.  She  knew  the  face  and 
the  form,  but  could  not  call  the  stranger  by  name.  With  a  fin- 
ger upon  her  lip,  and  her  eye  cast  first  upon  the  sleeping  boy 
and  then  upon  the  mother,  the  visitor  said,  in  a  low,  earnest,  but 
sweet  voice — "  Speak  gently  !" 

The  words  sent  a  thrill  through  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Burton,  and 
she  awoke.  Many  earnest  thoughts  and  self-reproaches  kept 
her  awake  for  a  long  time ;  but  she  slept  again,  and  more  quietly 
until  morning. 

The  impression  made  by  her  husband's  reproof,  her  own  sober 
reflections  and  the  dream,  was  deep.  Earnest  were  the  resolu- 
tions she  made  to  deal  more  gently  with  her  wayward  boy — to 
make  love  rule  instead  of  anger.  The  evils  against  which  she 
had  been  contending  so  powerfully  for  years  she  saw  to  be  in 
herself,  while  she  had  been  fighting  them  as  if  in  her  generous- 
minded  but  badly-governed  child. 

"  I  will  try  to  do  better,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  arose, 
feeling  but  little  refreshed  from  sleep.  Before  she  was  ready  to 
32* 


378  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

leave  her  room  she  heard  Harry's  voice  calling  her  from  the  next 
chamber,  where  he  slept.  The  tones  were  fretful ;  he  wanted 
some  attendance,  and  was  crying  out  for  it  in  a  manner  that  in- 
stantly disturbed  the  even  surface  of  the  mother's  feelings.  She 
was  about  telling  him  angrily  to  be  quiet  until  she  could  finish 
dressing  herself,  when  the  words  "speak  gently"  seemed  whisp- 
ered in  her  ear.  Their  effect  was  magical — the  mother's  spirit 
was  subdued. 

"  I  will  speak  gently,"  she  murmured,  and  went  into  Harry, 
who  was  still  crying  out  fretfully. 

"  What  do  you  want,  my  son  ?"  she  said,  in  a  quiet,  kind 
voice. 

The  boy  looked  up  with  surprise;  his  eye  brightened,  and  the 
whole  expression  of  his  face  was  changed  in  an  instant. 

"Ijcan't  find  my  stockings,  mamma,"  he  said. 

"  There  they  are,  under  the  bureau,"  returned  Mrs.  Burton, 
as  gently  as  she  had  at  first  spoken. 

"  Oh,  yes,  so  they  are,"  cheerfully  replied  Harry;  "I  couldn't 
see  them  nowhere." 

"  Did  you  think  crying  would  bring  them?" 

This  was  said  with  a  smile  and  in  a  tone  so  unlike  his  mother, 
that  the  child  looked  up  again  into  her  face  with  surprise,  that 
was,  Mrs.  Burton  plainly  saw,  mingled  with  pleasure. 

"  Did  you  want  anything  else?"  she  asked. 

"  No,  mamma,"  he  replied,  cheerfully,  "  I  can  dress  myself 
now." 

This  first  little  effort  was  crowned  with  the  most  encouraging 
results  to  the  mother;  she  felt  a  deep  peace  settling  in  her  bosom, 
the  consciousness  of  having  gained  a  true  victory  over  the  per- 
verse tendencies  of  both  her  own  and  the  heart  of  her  boy.  It 
was  a  little  act,  but  it  was  the  first  fruits,  and  the  gathering  even 
of  so  small  a  harvest  was  sweet  to  her  spirit. 

At  the  breakfast  table  the  usual  sceYie  was  about  being  enact- 
ed, when  "speak  gently"  coming  into  her  mind  prevented  its 
occurrence.  It  seemed  almost  a  mystery  to  her — the  effect  of 
words  gently  spoken  on  one  who  had  scarcely  heeded  her  most 
positive  and  angrily  uttered  reproofs  and  injunctions. 

Although  Harry  was  not  as  orderly  in  his  behavior  at  the  table 
as  the  mother  could  have  wished,  yet  he  did  much  better  than 
usual,  and  seemed  really  to  desire  to  do  what  was  right.  For 
nearly  the  whole  of  that  day  Mrs.  Burton  was  able  to  control 


SPEAK   GENTLY.  379 

herself  and  speak  gently  to  her  boy,  but  towards  evening  she 
became  fretful  again  from  some  cause  or  other.  From  the  instant 
this  change  made  itself  apparent  she  lost  the  sweet  influence  she 
had  been  able  to  exercise  over  the  mind  of  her  child.  He  no 
longer  heeded  her  words,  and  she  could  no  longer  feel  calm  in 
spirit  when  he  showed  perverse  and  evil  tempers.  When  night 
closed  in,  the  aspect  of  affairs  was  but  little  different  from  that 
of  any  preceding  day. 

Heavy  was  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Burton  when  she  sought  her  pil- 
low, and  the  incidents  and  feelings  of  the  day  came  up  in  re- 
view before  her  mind.  In  the  morning  her  heart  was  calm  and 
her  perceptions  clear;  she  saw  her  duty  plainly  and  felt  willing 
to  walk  in  its  pleasant  paths.  In  treading  these  she  had  expe- 
rienced an  internal  delight  unknown  before;  but  ere  the  day  had 
passed,  old  habits,  strong  from  frequent  indulgence,  returned, 
and  former  effects  followed  as  a  natural  consequence. 

As  she  lay  for  more  than  an  hour,  resolving  and  re-resolving 
to  do  better,  the  face  of  Harry  often  came  up  before  her.  Par- 
ticularly did  she  remember  its  peculiar  expression  when  she 
spoke  kindly,  instead  of  harshly  reproving  him  for  acts  of  rude- 
ness or  disobedience.  At  these  times  she  was  conscious  of  pos- 
sessing a  real  power  over  him  ;  this  she  never  felt  in  any  of  her 
angry  efforts  to  subdue  his  stubborn  will. 

On  awaking  in  the  morning  her  mind  was  renewed  ;  all  pas- 
sion had  sunk  into  quiescence ;  she  could  see  her  duty  and  feel 
willing  to  perform  it.  Harry,  too,  awoke  as  usual,  and  that  was 
in  a  fretful,  captious  mood  ;  but  this  rippling  of  the  surface  of 
his  feelings  all  subsided  when  the  voice  of  his  mother,  in  words 
gently  spoken,  fell  soothingly  upon  his  ear.  He  even  went  so  far 
as  to  put  his  arms  around  her  neck  and  kiss  her,  saying,  as  he 
did  so — "Indeed,  mamma,  I  will  be  a  good  boy." 

For  the  first  time  in  many  months  the  breakfast  hour  was  plea- 
sant to  all.  Harry  never  once  interrupted  the  conversation  that 
passed  at  intervals  between  his  father  and  mother.  When  he 
asked  for  anything  it  was  in  a  way  pleasing  to  all.  Once  or 
twice  Mrs.  Burton  found  it  necessary  to  correct  some  little  fault 
of  manner,  but  the  way  in  which  she  did  it,  not  in  the  least  dis- 
turbed her  child's  temper,  and  instead  of  not  seeming  to  hear 
her  words,  as  had  almost  always  been  the  case,  he  regarded  all 
that  she  said  and  tried  to  do  as  she  wished. 

"  There  is  a  wonderful  power  in  gentle  words,"  remarked  Mr. 
Burton  to  his  wife,  after  Harry  had  left  the  table. 


380  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

"  Yes,  wonderful,  indeed ;  their  effect  surprises  me." 

"  Love  is  strong." 

"  So  it  seems — stronger  than  any  other  influence  that  we  can 
bring  to  bear  upon  a  human  being." 

"Whether  that  being  be  a  child  or  a  full  grown  man." 

"  True,  without  doubt ;  but  how  hard  a  thing  is  it  for  us  to  so 
control  ourselves  that  the  sphere  of  all  our  actions  shall  be  full 
of  love.  Ah,  me!  the  love-theory  is  a  beautiful  one,  but  who 
of  us  can  always  practice  it  ?  For  me,  I  confess  that  I  cannot." 

"  Not  for  the  sake  of  your  children?" 

"For  their  sakes  I  would  make  almost  any  sacrifice;  would 
deny  myself  every  comfort — I  would  devote  my  life  to  their 
good;  and  yet  the  perfect  control  of  my  natural  temper,  even 
with  all  the  inducements  my  love  for  them  brings,  seems  impos- 
sible." 

"  I  think  you  have  done  wonders  already,"  Mr.  Burton  re- 
plied. "  If  the  first  effort  is  so  successful,  I  am  sure  you  need 
not  despair  of  making  the  perfect  conquest  you  desire." 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  sanguine;  I  only  wish  I  were  equally  so." 

"  It  might  not  be  as  well  if  you  were.  It  is  almost  always 
the  case  that  we  are  most  in  danger  of  falling  when  we  think 
ourselves  secure.  In  conscious  weakness  there  is  often  real 
power." 

"  If  that  consciousness  gives  power,  then  am  I  strong  enough," 
replied  Mrs.  Burton. 

And  she  was  stronger  than  she  supposed,  and  strong  because 
she  felt  herself  weak.  Had  she  been  confident  of  strength  she 
would  not  have  been  watchful  over  herself,  but  fearing  every  mo- 
ment lest  she  should  betray  her  natural  irascibility  and  fretful- 
ness  of  temper,  she  was  all  the  time  upon  her  guard.  To  her 
own  astonishment  and  that  of  her  husband,  she  was  able  to 
maintain  the  power  she  had  gained  over  Harry,  and  to  be  calm 
even  when  he  was  disturbed. 

But  in  all  our  states  of  moral  advancement  there  are  days  and 
nights,  as  in  our  natural  life.  There  are  times  when  all  the 
downward  tendencies  of  our  nature  are  active  and  appear  to 
govern  us  entirely ;  when  our  sun  has  gone  down  and  all  within 
us  is  dark.  At  such  times  we  are  tempted  to  believe  that  it  has 
become  dark  forever,  that  the  sun  will  no  more  appear  in  our 
horizon.  This  is  only  the  night  before  the  morning,  wrhich  will 
certainly  break  and  seem  brighter  and  full  of  strength  to  the 
anxious  spring. 


SPEAK    GENTLY.  381 

Such  changes  Mrs.  Burton  experienced,  and  they  were  the 
unerring  signs  of  her  progress.  Sometimes  for  days  together  she 
would  not  be  able  to  control  herself;  against  all  the  perverse 
tempers  of  her  child  her  feelings  would  react  unduly.  But  these 
seasons  were  of  shorter  and  shorter  duration  on  every  recurrence 
of  them,  and  the  reason  was,  she  strove  most  earnestly  for  the 
sake  of  that  child  to  reduce  her  whole  mind  into  a  state  of  order. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  Mrs.  Burton  always  found  the  will 
of  her  boy  ready  to  yield  itself  up  even  to  the  control  of  gentle- 
ness and  love.  With  him,  too,  was  there  a  night  and  a  morning; 
a  season  when  all  the  perverse  affections  of  his  mind  came  forth 
into  disorderly  manifestation,  refusing  to  hearken  even  to  the 
gentle  words  of  his  mother;  and  a  season  when  these  were  all 
quiescent  and  truly  human,  because  good  affections  governed  ia 
their  stead.  These  changes  were  soon  marked  by  the  mother 
and  their  meaning  fully  comprehended.  At  first  they  were  causes 
of  discouragememt,  but  soon  were  felt  to  be  really  encouraging, 
for  they  indicated  advancement.  Faithfully  and  earnestly,  day 
by  day,  did  Mrs.  Burton  strive  writh  herself  and  her  boy;  the 
hardest  struggle  was  with  herself;  —  usually,  when  'she  had 
gained  the  victory  over  herself  she  had  nothing  more  to  do,  for 
her  child  opposed  no  longer. 

Days,  weeks,  months  and  years  wrent  by;  during  all  this  time 
the  mother  continued  to  strive  earnestly  with  herself  and  with 
her  child.  The  happiest  results  followed;  the  fretful,  passionate, 
disorderly  boy,  became  even-minded  and  orderly  in  his  habits. 
A  word  gently  spoken  was  all-powerful  in  its  influence  for  good, 
but  the  least  shade  of  harshness  would  arouse  his  stubborn  will 
and  deform  the  fair  face  of  his  young  spirit. 

Whenever  mothers  complain  to  IV'rs.  Burton  of  the  difficulty 
they  find  in  managing  their  children,  she  has  but  one  piece  of 
advice  to  give,  and  that  is  to  "SPEAH  "ENTLY." 


IS   IT   ECONOMY? 

AN  EXPERIENCE  OF  MR.  JOHN  JONES. 


We  had  been  married  five  years,  and  during  the  time  had 
boarded  for  economy's  sake.  But  the  addition  of  one  after  an- 
other to  our  family,  admonished  us  that  it  was  getting  time  to 
enlarge  our  borders  ;  and  so  we  were  determined  to  go  to  house- 
keeping. In  matters  of  domestic  economy  both  my  wife  and 
myself  were  a  little  "  green,"  but  I  think  that  I  was  the  greenest 
of  the  two. 

To  get  a  house  was  our  first  concern,  and  to  select  furniture 
was  our  next.  The  house  was  found  after  two  months'  diligent 
search,  and  at  the  expense  of  a  good  deal  of  precious  shoe  leath- 
er. Save  me  from  another  siege  at  house-hunting  !  I  would 
about  as  soon  undertake  to  build  a  suitable  dwelling  with  my 
own  hands  as  to  find  one  "  exactly  the  thing"  already  up,  and 
waiting  with  open  doors  for  a  tenant.  All  the  really  desirable 
houses  that  we  found  ticketed  "  to  let,"  were  at  least" two  prices 
above  our  limit,  and  most  of  those  within  our  means  we  would 
hardly  have  lived  in  rent  free. 

At  last  ,  however,  we  found  a  cosy  little  nest  of  a  house,  just 
buill,  and  clean  and  neat  as  a  pew  pin,  from  top  to  bottom.  It 
suited  us  to  a  T.  And  now  came  the  next  most  important  bu- 
siness— selecting  furniture.  My  wife's  ideas  had  always  been  a 
little  in  advance  of  mine.  That  is,  she  liked  to  have  every  thing 
of  the  best  quality;  and  had  the  weakness,  so  to  speak,  of  de- 
siring to  make  an  appearance.  As  my  income,  at  the  time,  was 
but  moderate,  and  the  prospect  of  an  increase  thereof  not  very 
flattering,  I  felt  like  being  exceedingly  prudent  in  all  outlays  for 
furniture. 

"  We  must  be  content  with  things  few  and  plain,"  said  I,  as 
we  sat  down  one  morning  to  figure  up  what  we  must  get. 

382 


IS    IT    ECONOMY?  383 

"  But  let  them  be  good,"  said  my  wife. 

"  Strong  and  substantial,"  was  my  reply.  "  But  we  can't 
afford  to  pay  for  much  extra  polish  and  filagree  work." 

"  I  don't  want  any  thing  very  extra,  Mr.  Jones,"  returned  my 
wife,  a  little  uneasily.  "  Though  what  I  do  have,  I  would  like 
good.  It's  no  economy,  in  the  end,  to  buy  cheap  things." 

The  emphasis  on  the  word  cheap,  rather  grated  on  my  ear  ;  for 
I  was  in  favor  of  getting  every  thing  as  cheap  as  possible. 

"  What  kind  of  chairs  did  you  think  of  getting  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Jones. 

"  A  handsome  set  of  cane-seat,"  I  replied,  thinking  that  in 
this,  at  least,  I  would  be  even  with  her  ideas  on  the  subject  of 
parlor  chairs. 

But  her  face  did  not  brighten. 

"  What  kind  would  you  like  ?"  said  I. 

"  I  believe  it  would  be  more  economical  in  the  end  to  get  good 
stuffed  seat,  mahogany  chairs,"  replied  Mrs.  Jones. 

"  At  five  dollars  a-piece,  Ellen  ?" 

"  Yes.  Even  at  five  dollars  a-piece.  They  would  last  us 
our  life-time  ;  while  cane-seat  chairs,  if  we  get  them,  will  have 
to  be  renewed  two  or  three  times,  and  cost  a  great  deal  more 
in  the  end,  without  being  half  so  comfortable,  or  looking  half  so 
well." 

"  Sixty  dollars  for  a  dozen  chairs,  when  very  good  ones  can 
be  had  for  twenty-four  dollars  !  Indeed,  Ellen,  we  musn't  think 
of  such  a  thing.  We  can't  afford  it.  Remember,  there  are  a 
great  many  other  things  to  buy." 

"  I  know,  dear  ;  but  I  am  sure  it  will  be  much  more  econom- 
ical in  the  end  for  us  to  diminish  the  number  of  articles,  and  add 
to  the  quality  of  what  we  do  have.  I  am  very  much  like  the 
poor  woman  who  preferred  a  cup  of  clear,  strong,  fragrant  coffee, 
three  times  a  week,  to  a  decoction  of  burnt  rye  every  day.  What 
I  have,  I  do  like  good." 

"  And  so  do  I,  Ellen.  But,  as  I  said  before,  there  will  be, 
diminish  as  we  may,  a  great  many  things  to  buy,  and  we  must 
make  the  cost  of  each  as  small  as  possible.  We  must  not  think 
of  such  extravagance  as  mahogany  chairs  now.  At  some  other 
time  we  may  get  them." 

My  wife  here  gave  up  the  point,  and,  what  I  thought  a  little 
remarkable,  made  no  more  points  on  the  subject  of  furniture.  I 
had  every  thing  my  own  way ;  I  bought  cheap  to  my  heart's 


384  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

content.     It  was  only  necessary  for  me  to  express  my  approval 
of  an  article,  for  her  to  assent  to  its  purchase. 

As  to  patronizing  your  fashionable  cabinet-makers  and  high- 
priced  upholsterers,  we  were  not  guilty  of  the  folly,  but  bought 
at  reasonable  rates  from  auction  stores  and  at  public  sales.  Our 
parlor  carpets  cost  but  ninety  cents  a  yard,  and  were  handsomer 
than  those  for  which  a  lady  of  our  acquaintance  paid  a  dollar 
thirty-eight.  Our  chairs  were  of  a  neat,  fancy  pattern,  and  had 
cost  thirty  dollars  a  dozen.  We  had  hesitated  for  some  time  be- 
tween a  set  at  twenty-four  dollars  a  dozen  and  these  ;  but  the 
style  being  so  much  more  attractive,  we  let  our  taste  govern  in 
the  selection.  The  price  of  our  sofa  was  eighteen  dollars,  and 
I  thought  it  a  really  genteel  affair,  though  my  wife  was  not  in 
raptures  about  it.  A  pair  of  card  tables  for  fifteen  dollars,  and 
a  marble-top  centre-table  for  fourteen,  gave  our  parlors  quite  a 
handsome  appearance. 

"  I  wouldn't  ask  any  thing  more  comfortable  or  genteel  than 
this,"  said  I,  when  the  parlors  were  all  "  fixed"  right. 

Mrs.  Jones  looked  pleased  with  the  appearance  of  things,  but 
did  not  express  herself  extravagantly. 

In  selecting  our  chamber  furuiture,  a  handsome  dressing-bu- 
reau and  French  bedstead  that  my  wife  went  to  look  at  in  the 
wareroom  of  a  high-priced  cabinet-maker,  tempted  her  strongly, 
and  it  was  with  some  difficulty  that  I  could  get  her  ideas  back 
to  a  regular  maple  four-poster,  a  plain,  ten  dollar  bureau,  and  a 
two  dollar  dressing-glass.  Twenty  and  thirty  dollar  matresses, 
too,  were  in  her  mind,  but  when  articles  of  the  kind,  just  as  good 
to  wear,  could  be  had  at  eight  and  ten  dollars,  where  was  the 
use  of  wasting  money  in  going  higher  ? 

The  ratio  of  cost  set  down  against  the  aforegoing  articles,  was 
maintained  from  garret  to  kitchen  ;  and  I  was  agreeably  disap- 
pointed to  find,  after  the  last  bill  for  purchases  was  paid  that  I  was 
within  the  limit  of  expenditures  I  had  proposed  to  make  by  over 
a  hundred  dollars. 

The  change  from  a  boarding-house  to  a  comfortable  home  was, 
indeed,  pleasant.  We  could  never  get  done  talking  about  it. 
Every  thing  was  so  quiet,  so  new,  so  clean,  and  so  orderly. 

"  This  is  living,"  would  drop  from,  our  lips  a  dozen  times  a 
week. 

One  day,  about  three  months  after  we  had  commenced  house- 
keeping, I  came  home,  and,  on  entering  the  parlor,  the  first 


IS   IT   ECONOMY?  3S5 

thing  that  met  my  eye  was  a  large  spot  of  white  on  the  new  sofa. 
A  piece  of  the  veneering  had  been  knocked  off,  completely  dis- 
figuring it. 

"  What  did  that  ?"  I  asked  of  my  wife. 

"  In  setting  back  a  chair  that  I  had  dusted,"  she  replied, 
"  one  of  the  feet  touched  the  sofa  lightly,  when  off  dropped  that 
veneer  like  a  loose  flake.  I've  been  examining  the  sofa  since, 
and  find  that  it  is  a  very  bad  piece  of  work.  Just  look  here." 

And  she  drew  me  over  to  the  place  where  my  eighteen  dollar 
sofa  stood,  and  pointed  out  sundry  large  seams  that  had  gaped 
open,  loose  spots  in  the  veneering,  and  rickety  joints.  I  saw 
now,  what  I  had  not  before  seen,  that  the  whole  article  was  of 
exceedingly  common  material  and  common  workmanship. 

"  A  miserable  piece  of  furniture !"  said  I. 

"  It  is,  indeed,"  returned  Mrs.  Jones.  "  To  buy  an  article 
like  this,  is  little  better  than  throwing  money  into  the  street." 

For  a  month  the  disfigured  sofa  remained  in  the  parlor,  a  per- 
fect eye-sore,  when  another  piece  of  the  veneering  sloughed  off, 
and  one  of  the  feet  became  loose.  It  was  then  sent  to  a  cabinet- 
maker for  repair  ;  and  cost  for  removing  and  mending  just  five 
dollars. 

Not  long  after  this  the  bureau  had  to  take  a  like  journey,  for 
it  had,  strangely  enough,  fallen  into  sudden  dilapidation.  All 
the  locks  were  out  of  order,  half  the  knobs  were  off,  there  was 
not  a  drawer  that  didn't  require  the  most  accurate  balancing 
of  forces  in  order  to  get  it  shut  after  it  was  once  open,  and  it 
showed  premonitory  symptoms  of  shedding  its  skin  like  a 
snake.  A  five  dollar  bill  was  expended  in  putting  this  into 
something  like  usable  order  and  respectable  aspect.  By  this  time 
a  new  set  of  castors  was  needed  for  the  maple  four-poster,  which 
was  obtained  at  the  expense  of  two  dollars.  Moreover,  the  head- 
board to  said  four-poster,  which,  from  its  exceeding  ugliness, 
had,  from  the  first,  been  a  terrible  eye-sore  to  Mrs.  Jones,  as 
well  as  to  myself,  was  about  this  period,  removed,  and  one  of 
more  sightly  appearance  substituted,  at  the  additional  charge  of 
six  dollars.  No  tester  frame  had  accompanied  the  cheap  bed- 
stead at  its  original  purchase,  and  now  my  wife  wished  to  have 
one,  and  also  a  light  curtain  above  and  valance  below.  All 
these,  with  trimmings,  etc.,  to  match,  cost  the  round  sum  of 
ten  dollars. 

"  It  looks  very  neat,"  said  Mrs.  Jones,  after  her  curtains  were  up 
33 


386  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE   AND   CHARACTER. 

"  It  does,  indeed,"  said  I. 

"  Still,"  returned  Mrs.  Jones,  "  I  would  much  rather  have  had 
a  handsome  mahogany  French  bedstead." 

"  So  would  I,"  was  my  answer.  "  But  you  know  they  cost 
some  thirty  dollars,  and  we  paid  but  sixteen  for  this." 

"  Sixteen  !"  said  my  wife,  turning  quickly  toward  me.  "  It 
cost  more  than  that." 

"  Oh,  no.  I  have  the  bill  in  my  desk,"  was  my  confident 
answer. 

"  Sixteen  was  originally  paid,  I  know,  said  Mrs.  Jones. 
"  But  then,  remember,  what  it  has  cost  since.  Two  dollars  for 
castors,  six  for  a  new  head-board,  and  ten  for  tester  and  curtains. 
Thirty-four  dollars  in  all ;  when  a  very  handsome  French  bed- 
stead, of  good  workmanship,  can  be  bought  for  thirty  dollars." 

I  must  own  that  I  was  taken  somewhat  aback  by  this  array 
of  figures  "  that  don't  lie." 

"  And  for  twenty  dollars,  we  could  have  bought  a  neat,  well 
made  dressing  bureau  at  Moore  and  Campions,  that  would  have 
lasted  for  twice  as.  many  years,  and  always  looked  in  credit." 

"  But  ours,  you  know,  only  cost  ten,"  said  I. 

"  The  bureau,  such  as  it  is,  cost  ten,  and  the  glass  two.  Add 
five  that  we  have  already  paid  for  repairs,  and  the  four  that  our 
maple  bedstead  has  cost  above  the  price  of  a  handsome  French 
one,  and  we  will  have  the  sum  of  twTenty-one  dollars,  enough  to 
purchase  as  handsome  a  dressing-bureau  as  I  would  ask.  So 
you  see,  Mr.  Jones,  that  our  cheap  chamber  furniture  is  not  go- 
ing to  turn  out  so  cheap  after  all.  And  as  for  looks,  why  no  one 
can  say  there  is  much  to  brag  of." 

This  was  a  new  view  of  the  case,  and  certainly  one  not  very 
flattering  to  my  economical  vanity.  I  gave  in,  of  course,  and 
admitted  that  Mrs.  Jones  was  right. 

But  the  dilapidations  and  expenses  for  repairs  to  which  I 
have  just  referred,  were  but  as  the  "  beginning  of  sorrows." 
It  took  about  three  years  to  show  the  full  fruits  of  my  error.  By 
the  end  of  that  time,  half  my  parlor  chairs  had  been  rendered 
useless  in  consequence  of  the  back-breaking  and  seat-rending 
ordeals  through  which  they  had  been  called  to  pass.  The  sofa 
was  unanimously  condemned  to  the  dining  room,  and  the  ninety 
cent  carpet  had  gone  on  fading  and  defacing,  until  my  wife  said 
she  was  ashamtd  to  put  it  even  on  her  chambers.  For  repairs, 
our  furniture  had  cost,  up  to  this  period,  to  say  nothing  of  the 


IS    IT    ECONOMY?  3S7 

perpetual  annoyance  of  having  it  put  out  of  order,  and  running 
for  the  cabinet-maker  and  upholsterer,  not  less  than  a  couple  of 
hundred  dollars. 

Finally,  I  grew  desperate. 

"  I'll  have  decent,  well  made  furniture,  let  it  cost  what  it 
will,"  said  I,  to  Mrs.  Jones. 

"  You  will  find  it  cheapest  in  the  end,"  was  her  quiet  reply. 

On  the  next  day  we  went  to  a  cabinet-maker,  whose  reputa- 
tion for  good  work  stood  among  the  highest  in  the  city,  and  or- 
dered new  parlor  and  chamber  furniture — mahogany  chairs, 
French  bedstead,  dressing-bureau  and  all,  and  as  soon  as  they 
came  home,  cleared  the  house  of  all  the  old  cheap  (dear !)  trash 
with  which  we  had  been  worried  since  the  day  we  commenced 
housekeeping. 

A  good  many  years  have  passed  since,  and  we  have  not  paid 
the  first  five  dollar  bill  for  repairs.  All  the  drawers  run  as 
smoothly  as  railroad  cars  ;  knobs  are  tight ;  locks  in  prime  or- 
der, and  veneers  cling  as  tightly  to  their  places  as  if  they  had 
grown  there.  All  is  right  and  tight,  and  wears  an  orderly,  gen- 
teel appearance  ;  and  what  is  best  of  all,  the  cost  of  every  thing 
we  have,  good  as  it  is,  is  far  below  the  real  cost  of  what  is  in- 
ferior. 

"  It  is  better — much  better,"  said  I  to  Mrs.  Jones,  the  other 
day. 

"  Better !"  was  her  reply.  "  Yes,  indeed,  a  thousand  times 
better  to  have  good  things  at  once.  Cheap  furniture  is  dearest 
in  the  end.  Every  housekeeper  ought  to  know  this  in  the  be- 
ginning. If  we  had  known  it,  see  what  we  would  have  saved." 

"  If  7  had  known  it,  you  mean,"  said  I. 

My  wife  looked  kindly,  not  triumphantly,  into  my  face,  and 
smiled. .  When  she  again  spoke,  it  was  on  another  subject. 


THE  DONATION  VISIT. 


The  Congregation  of  the  Rev.  Jason  Edwards  was  made  up 
of  very  good  sort  of  people,  as  the  saying  is.  They  liked  their 
minister  very  well,  only  it  did  seem  to  them  that  it  took  a 
"  power"  of  money  to  support  his  family.  They  paid  him,  reg- 
ularly, the  very  handsome  salary  of  three  hundred  dollars  a  year, 
besides  providing  a  house  for  his  use,  with  ground  enough  for  a 
garden  ;  yet  notwithstanding  this,  the  minister  was  always  poor. 
It  was  plain  that  he  must  waste  his  money  in  extravagances  of 
some  sort  or  other ;  but,  he  was  a  good  man  and  preached  the 
word  faithfully  ;  and  so,  they  bore  with  him,  and  endeavored  to 
make  up  the  constantly  occurring  deficiencies  by  forced  efforts 
of  one  kind  or  another.  Every  fall  he  was  favored  with  either  a 
Donation  Visit,  or  a  Donation  Party,  which  was  expected  to  put 
him  beyond  the  reach  of  want  for  the  next  six  months  if  not  a 
whole  year. 

On  the  last  occasion  of  this  kind,  it  was  the  pleasure  of  those 
who  had  the  ordering  of  public  matters  in  the  congregation,  to 
decide  upon  a  regular  Donation  Party,  due  notice  of  which  was 
served  upon  the  Minister.  The  afternoon  and  evening  on  which 
the  affair  was  to  come  off,  proved  altogether  propitious,  (unfor- 
tunately for  the  minister,)  and  there  was,  of  course,  a  large  turn 

out,  of  men,  women,  and  children.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  B ,  who 

contributed  a  pair  of  yarn  stockings  for  Mr.  Edwards,  and  three 
pounds  of  home-made  saussage,  felt  entitled,  of  course,  to  bring 
their  three  boys  along,  each  of  whom,  having  saved  his  appetite 
since  morning,  could  devour,  in  the  way  of  cakes,  pies,  and 
more  solid  articles  of  food — the  contributions  of  otryer  members — 
about  three  times  the  value  of  these  articles : — And  Mr.  and  Mrs. 

B ,  who  furnished  a  pair  of  India  rubber  shoes  for  Mrs. 

Edwards,  and  a  worked  cap  for  the  baby,  also  felt  privileged  to 


THE    DONATION    VISIT.  389 

bring  their  two  daughters  along,  whose  appetites  were,  likewise, 
sharpened  for  the  occasion.  And,  something  after  this  same 

fashion  was  it  with  the  C s,  D s,  E s,  and  F s. 

The  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter  was,  that  the  Minister's 
family,  after  superintending  a  lavish  entertainment,  the  raw  ma- 
terial for  which  was  furnished  by  the  congregation,  and  the  la- 
bor and  care  by  themselves,  was  in  possession  of  the  fragments 
of  a  feast  that  by  natural  course  of  consumption  would  disap- 
pear within  a  week.  Beyond  this,  a  few  pairs  of  shoes  and 
stockings,  numerous  ornamental  articles  manufactured  by  young 
ladies,  a  couple  of  loads  of  wood,  and  sundry  nick  nackeries  of 
no  great  value,  were  nearly  all  that  the  Donation  Party  yielded. 
As  it  was  to  be  a  "party,"  the  majority  of  those  who  came 
brought  such  things  as  would  best  serve  the  occasion,  half  for- 
getting, in  their  anticipations  of  pleasure,  the  real  object  they 
proposed  to  accomplish.  Eatables  and  drinkables,  therefore, 
made  up  more  than  two-thirds  of  all  that  was  donated,  and 
these  were  mostly  in  articles  of  present  consumption.  One  old 
farmer,  more  substantial  in  his  notions  than  the  rest,  did  bring  a 
"  whole  hog ;"  and  another  provided  a  couple  of  hams — but  of 
the  latter,  one  disappeared  at  supper  time. 

In  fact,  on  the  morning  after  the  Donation  Party,  Mr.  Ed- 
wards, instead  of  feeling  in  a  comfortable  state  of  mind  so  far 
as  this  world's  goods  wrere  concerned,  felt  considerably  poorer 
than  before ;  for,  while  the  visitation  with  which  he  had  been 
favored  was  of  but  little  real  benefit,  he  knew  that  the  impres- 
sion had  gone  abroad  through  the  congregation  that  he  was  so 
over-supplied  with  every  thing  good  for  the  natural  man,  as  to 
be  unable  to  exhaust  the  stock  for  months.  Tn  consequence  of 
this,  individuals,  who  would,  otherwise,  have  remembered  him, 
would  now  omit  their  loads  of  wood,  bags  of  potatoes  of  meal, 
and  sundry  other  things  of  a  like  nature,  under  the  impression 
that  such  presents  would  be  entirely  superfluous. 

Mr.  Edwards  was  hardly  a  man  suited  for  a  congregation  like 
that  at  Everton.  He  had,  really,  too  much  refinement,  delicacy, 
and  independence  of  feeling.  These  Donation  visits  and  parties 
were  particularly  unpleasant  to  him,  for  they  were  attended  with 
so  much  that  was  patronizing ;  so  much  that  hurt  his  self-re- 
spect, that,  their  occurrence,  apart  from  all  other  considerations, 
was  especially  annoying.  His  salary  was  paid  to  him  as  some- 
thing to  which  he  had  a  right.  He  received  that  as  the  fulfil- 
33* 


390  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

ment  of  a  contract,  and,  therefore,  without  a  sense  of  humilia- 
tion. It  was  inadequate  to  the  supply  of  his  real  wants; 
and  the  deficit  had,  every  year,  to  be  made  up  by  the  con- 
gregation, and  this  came  to  him  in  a  half  grudged  gratuity, 
and,  therefore,  its  reception  always  wounded  him.  After  all,  the 
members  of  the  church  had  to  meet  his  expenses,  and  it  cost 
them  quite  as  much  to  do  so  after  the  fashion  they  seemed  to 
prefer,  as  to  have  paid  him  a  sufficient  salary  at  once,  and  left  him 
to  provide  in  true  independence  for  his  family.  This  was  seen 
and  felt  by  Mr.  Edwards,  and  it  fretted  him  whenever  his  mind 
recurred  to  the  subject. 

Sometime  during  the  latter  part  of  the  year  succeeding  that  in 
which  the  Donation  Party  just  referred  to  took  place,  Mr.  Ed- 
wards had  a  hint  from  one  of  the  "  Officials,"  that  another  affair 
of  the  kind  was  likely  to  come  off  before  a  great  while. 

"  Brother,"  said  the  minister,  when  this  hint  came,  bending  to 
the  ear  of  the  person  he  addressed,  and  half  whispering,  "  if 
you  have  any  influence,  spare  me  another  'party!' " 

The  brother  looked  surprized. 

"  Or  at  least,"  added  the  minister,  with  a  meaning  smile,  and 
a  humorous  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  "  let  it  be  understood  that  no 
one  who  intends  coming  shall  fast  from  breakfast  time." 

It  took  the  rather  obtuse-minded  brother  nearly  a  minute  to 
comprehend  the  meaning  of  Mr.  Edwards.  He  then  saw  it  clear 
enough.  Being  himself  a  lover  of  good  eating,  and  having,  on 
the  occasion  referred  to,  done  his  share  in  that  line,  he  had,  quite 
naturally,  a  feeling  of  sympathy  for  those  who  came  together  for 
purposes  of  festivity,  particularly  as  they  had  brought  their  own 
provisions. 

"  I  see  no  use  in  providing  a  good  supper  if  people  don't 
bring  appetites  to  the  entertainment,"  said  he.  "  Besides,  you 
know,  that  each  one  brought  something." 

"  Yes,  I  know  that.  One  lady  who  came  with  her  two  daugh- 
ters, brought  a  pint  of  cream  and  a  cotton  night  cap ;  and 

another — But "  the  minister  checked  himself — "  I  mustn't 

refer  to  these  things.  All  I  now  ask,  brother,  is  that,  without 
speaking  of  my  wishes  in  the  matter,  you  will  use  your  influ- 
ence to  save  me  from  the  infliction  of  another  Donation  Party." 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  should  object  so  strongly;  or  why 
you  should  grudge — excuse  my  freedom — the  little  your  visitors 
happen  to  eat,  "  said  the  Official." 


THE   DONATION   VISIT.  391 

"  How  much  do  you  think  I  had  left  after  nearly  the  whole 
congregation  had  fed  themselves  to  repletion?"  enquired  the 
minister,  who  was  spurred  into  speaking  more  plainly  than  was 
his  custom. 

"  Enough  provisions  to  last  you  three  or  four  months,  besides 
wood  and  clothing." 

"  Not  enough  provisions  to  keep  the  family  for  two  weeks  ; 
and,  as  for  clothing,  I  could  have  bought  with  five  dollars,  more 
that  would  have  been  really  useful  in  the  family  than  all  that  was 
received.  There — you  have  the  plain  truth.  I  speak  it  for  your 
own  ears.  You  now  understand  why  I  want  no  more  donation 
parties.  The  last  was  pretty  much  as  all  the  others  have  been  ; 
a  great  deal  more  trouble  than  profit — leaving  me  with  the  repu- 
tation of  having  received  large  supplies  of  all  things  needful, 
when,  in  reality  I  was  little  if  any  better  off  than  before." 

The  mental  vision  of  the  brother  was  a  little  clearer  on  at  least 
one  subject,  after  hearing  this  declaration.  He  went  away  ra- 
ther more  thoughtful  than  when  he  came.  There  was  no  Dona- 
tion Party  that  year,  but,  in  its  stead,  a  Donation  Visit  was 
planned,  and  Mr.  Edwards  duly  notified  of  the  time  when  it  was 
to  take  place. 

On  Saturday  the  twentieth  of  October,  the  day  appointed  for 
this  interesting  event,  the  minister's  little  household  was  in  a 
state  of  restless  anticipation,  pleasant  or  unpleasant  according  to 
the  particular  temperament  of  the  individual.  Mrs.  Edwards, 
who,  probably,  felt  the  exhaustion  of  all  things  temporal  more 
severely  than  her  husband,  could  not  help  letting  her  imagina- 
tion picture  at  least  some  things  more  particularly  needed  than 
others.  There  was  a  new  bonnet  for  herself.  No  doubt  some 
of  the  kind  sisters  had  noticed  how  rusty  and  defaced  hers  had 
become,  and  would  supply  the  need. 

"  I  hope  they  will  not  bring  two  bonnets,"  said  she,  to  her- 
self as  she  mused  on  the  subject.  It  was  settled  in  her  mind 
that  one  would  come.  The  trouble  was,  lest  two  of  the  church 
members  should  decide  upon  the  same  article — a  thing  that 
seemed  to  her  quite  natural,  as  all  must  have  observed  how 
greatly  she  stood  in  need  of  a  new  bonnet.  Then,  there  were 
clothes  for  the  children.  Her  two  boys  must  have  each  a  couple 
of  winter  suits.  So  plain  a  want  as  this,  any  one  could  see. 

"  I'm  sure,"  she  said  to  her  husband,  "  that  Mr.  Jenkins,  who 
owns  the  factory,  will  bring  us  some  of  his  nice  satinet,  to  make 
jackets  and  trowsers  for  the  boys." 


392  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

"  Can't  tell  any  thing  about  it,"  replied  Mr.  Edwards,  to  whose 
mind  anticipation  brought  a  feeling  of  disturbance  and  humilia- 
tion. 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  he'll  do  so.  Would  it  not  be  natural  for 
him,  above  all  others,  to  think  of  a  few  yards  of  satinet.  And 
he  wouldn't  feel  it  at  all,  for  he's  got  hundreds  of  pieces." 

Mr.  Edwards  made  no  reply,  but  it  did  seem  to  him,  now 
that  his  wife  had  suggested  it,  that  it  would  be  quite  natural  for 
Mr.  Jenkins  to  remember  the  boys  in  a  present  of  cloth  for  a 
suit  of  clothes.  The  thought  acted  as  a  relief  to  his  mind  ;  for 
the  boys  had  looked  rather  shabby  for  some  time,  and  the  way 
by  which  new  clothing  was  to  come,  had  not  seemed  at  all  plain 
before  his  eyes. 

So  it  was  tacitly  settled  in  the  minds  of  the  minister  and  his 
good  wife,  that  Harry  and  Joseph  were  to  be  supplied  with  new 
suits  of  clothes  from  the  factory  of  Mr.  Jenkins. 

From  the  bonnet  and  the  satinet,  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Edwards 
went  farther.  Shoes  were  very  much  needed  by  the  children, 
and  as  for  herself,  she  had  n't  a  pair  that  was  fit  to  go  to  church 
in.  These  would,  of  course,  come.  In  fact,  there  was  scarce- 
ly a  want  existing  in  the  family  that  the  minister's  wife  did  not, 
in  imagination,  see  amply  supplied  ;  and  her  mind  was  thus 
eased  of  a  portion  of  it  care  and  anxiety. 

Dinner  was  ready  an  hour  earlier  than  usual,  and  hurried  over, 
in  order  that  all  might  prepare  to  receive  the  visitors  who  were 
soon  expected  to  arrive.  Mr.  Edwards  took  his  place  in  the 
parlor  about  one  o'clock,  and  tried  to  compose  his  mind  to  read. 
But  his  eyes  wandered  over  the  pages  spread  out  before  him 
without  his  mind  perceiving  the  sense.  His  heart  beat  slowly 
and  heavily,  and  there  was  a  sense  of  oppression  on  his  feel- 
ings. Hope  struggled  with  humiliation. 

At  length  the  first  visiter  appeared.  He  was  a  sturdy  old  far- 
mer, living  a  couple  of  miles  from  the  village.  He  came  with 
his  waggon,  and  brought  a  load  of  wood,  which  his  man  threw 
out,  while  he  came  in  to  shake  hands  with  the  minister  and  en- 
quire after  his  health. 

"  I've  brought  you  something  with  which  to  drive  Jack  Frost 
away  in  the  coming  winter,"  said  the  farmer,  as  he  entered  the 
parlor  of  Mr.  Edwards. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  returned  the  minister,  as  he  took  the 
hand  of  his  parishioner  and  invited  him  to  sit  down.  The  lit- 


MR.  JENKINS  AM)  THE  (i 


THE    DONATION   VISIT.  393 

tie  talk  that  succeeded  was  rather  constrained  on  both  sides.  The 
farmer  felt  rather  embarrassed,  for  he  was  a  man  of  excellent 
feelings  and  some  knowledge  of  human  nature  ;  and  Mr.  Ed- 
wards was  equally  constrained.  As  soon  as  the  last  log  was 
thrown  from  the  waggon,  the  farmer  arose,  and  bidding  the 
minister  farewell,  retired.  He  didn't  feel  altogther  pleased  at 
his  part,  for  there  was  a  perception  in  his  mind  that  the  minis- 
ter's natural  independence  had  been  hurt.  He  knew  how  it 
would  be  with  himself  if  their  relations  to  each  other  were  re- 
versed. 

Soon  after  the  farmer  retired,  one  of  the  ladies  of  the  congre- 
gation came.  She  brought  a  pair  of  knit  gloves  for  the  minis- 
ter. Her  ability  was  not  great,  she  said,  but  what  she  could 
do  was  done  cheerfully.  Hoped  all  would  do  as  well,  taking 
their  means  into  consideration.  Next  came  a  little  bag  of  dough- 
nuts ;  next  a  ham  ;  next  a  pair  of  stockings,  and  next  a  cradle- 
quilt  for  the  baby.  The  latter  was  brought  by  the  hands  of  one 
of  the  ladies  fixed  upon  by  Mrs.  Edwards  as  the  donor  of  a 
new  bonnet.  Immediately  after  her  arrival,  Mr.  Jenkins,  who 
owned  the  factory,  and  to  whom  had  been  mentally  assigned  the 
privilege  of  furnishing  satinet  for  the  boys'  new  suits  of  clothes, 
pushed  open  the  door,  and  entered  with  a  large  roll — no,  with  a 
fine  fat  goose  in  his  hand  !  The  sight  of  the  bird,  in  spite  of 
his  immediate  effort  to  bring  into  exercise  a  due  portion  of  Chris- 
tian philosophy,  had  a  decided  effect  upon  the  minister's  feel- 
ings. Even  he  had  permitted  himself  to  make  calculations  on 
Mr.  Jenkins,  which  the  appearance  of  the  goose  scattered  into 
airy  nothingness.  And  poor  Mrs.  Edwards!  how  heavily  sunk 
her  disappointed  heart,  when  the  smiling  face  of  the  manufac- 
turer appeared,  and  he  presented  his  goose  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  was  doing  an  especial  act  of  kindness.  To  the  self-satis- 
fied Mr.  Jenkins,  others  succeeded  in  quick  succession  ;  and  so 
the  current  was  kept  up  until  the  sun  went  down,  when  the  min- 
ister and  his  family  were  left  amid  their  treasures ;  while  those  who 
had  made  their  donations  returned  to  their  homes  well  satisfied 
that  peace  and  plenty  were  smiling  guests  at  the  parsonage,  and 
would  not  spread  their  wings  for  months  to  come. 

The  sober  reality  of  this  ostentatious  affair  was  as  follows. — 
Two  loads  of  wood,  a  barrel  of  cider,  three  lamp  mats,  three 
hams,  six  loins  of  veal,  a  bushel  of  hickory  nuts,  seven  geese, 
five  chickens,  three  turkeys,  four  ducks,  a  sucking  pig,  fourteen 


394  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

yards  of  sausage  links,  (actual  measurement,)  four  shoulders  of 
mutton,  three  pairs  of  stockings,  (none  of  the  right  size,)  eight 
pairs  of  knit  gloves  for  the  minister,  a  dozen  table  mats,  three 
woolen  night  caps,  one  comfortable,  a  pair  of  blankets,  four  jars 
pickles,  three  pots  apple  butter,  two  jars  preserves,  half  a  barrel 
of  salt  pork,  two  sacks  of  flour,  six  barrels  of  apples,  a  bushel 
of  doughnuts,  twenty  pies,  and  over  a  bushel  of  ginger  cakes, 
good,  bad  and  indifferent;  besides  a  variety  of  other  matters, 
which,  being  of  no  use  to  the  owners,  were  of  little  higher  value 
to  the  minister  or  any  of  his  family.  But,  there  were  no  clothes 
for  the  children,  no  bonnet  for  Mrs.  Edwards,  no  shoes  for  the 
feet  that  scarcely  had  a  covering.  There  were  piles  of  fresh 
meat  and  poultry  instead,  that  could  not  be  eaten,  and  which  it 
would  be  a  crying  offence  to  sell.  Four  fifths  of  this  would 
have  to  be  given  away  to  keep  it  from  spoiling. 

Amid  all  this  abundance  of  good  things,  the  minister  sat 
thoughtful,  while  his  good  wife  looked  on  so  grievously  disap- 
pointed that  she  could  not  keep  back  her  tears. 

The  day  following  was  the  Sabbath.  A  more  self-satisfied 
congregation  had  not  assembled  in  the  little  church  for  a  long 
time.  There  was  a  smile  of  pleasure  and  self-approval  on  near- 
ly every  face,  as  the  minister  entered  and  ascended  the  pulpit. 
His  family  did  not  come  in  with  him.  This  was  unusual,  and 
many  who  noticed  that  the  minister's  pew  was  empty,  wonder- 
ed as  to  the  cause. 

There  was  more  than  usual  gravity  in  the  voice  and  air  of 
Mr.  Edwards  as  he  read  the  service.  Many  wondered  what  it 
could  mean,  and  felt  chilled  by  something  about  the  minister 
that  was  not  clearly  understood.  When  he  took  his  text,  which 
was  in  these  words — "  The  laborer  is  worthy  of  his  hire,"  it 
was  with  an  emphasis  that  plainly  enough  showed  him  to  have 
something  more  than  ordinary  on  his  mind.  The  sermon  was 
short,  and,  for  the  most  part,  general  in  its  bearing. 

"  I  purpose,  said  the  preacher,  in  conclusion,  "  to  make  but 
a  single  brief  practical  application  of  my  text.  It  is  this : — 
When  you  hire  a  minister,  pay  him  out  and  out  a  fair  living 
salary ;  don't  starve  him  on  three  hundred  dollars,  and  then  in- 
sult him  with  a  beggarly  Donation  Visit  once  a  year." 

There  was  a  buzzing  in  the  hive  it  may  be  reasonably  inferr- 
ed at  this,  and  the  people  who  came  out  in  the  morning  in  a 
most  excellent  and  self-complacent  state  of  mind  went  home 


THE   DONATION   VISIT.  395 

from  church  with  their  feelings  down  to  zero.  Words,  such  as 
"  outrageous,"  ungrateful,"  "  shame,"  "  insulting,"  and  the 
like,  were  heard  in  all  directions. 

In  the  afternoon,  three  or  four  of  the  leading-members  called 
upon  Mr.  Edwards  for  an  explanation  of  his  strange  conduct. 
He  met  them  with  the  utmost  composure,  and  when  they  open- 
ed the  subject  of  their  visit,  he  answered  by  inviting  them  to 
walk  with  him  into  the  adjoining  room.  There  they  found  the 
entire  result,  save  the  two  loads  of  wood,  of  the  donation  visit. 

"  Here,"  said  he,  after  he  had  closed  the  door,  "  are  poultry 
and  fresh  meats  enough  for  a  dozen  families  as  large  again  as 
mine ;  here  is  cider  (that  I  don't  drink,)  and  pickles  and  pre- 
serves, nuts,  apple  butter,  night  caps,  gloves,  and  fifty  useless 
things  besides,  while  my  wife  has  to  stay  at  home  from  church 
for  want  of  a  bonnet  and  shoes,  and  my  children  cannot  be  made 
decent  enough  to  appear  in  the  house  of  God." 

The  minister  paused.  Those  whom  he  addressed  looked  at 
each  other  with  a  crest-fallen  air. 

"  Simply  take  a  report  of  what  you  have  seen  to  those  who 
think  themselves  aggrieved,"  said  Mr.  Edwards,  as  he  opened 
the  door  again,  and  passed  with  his  visitors  into  the  parlor.  "  Tell 
them,  that  if  they  think  the  laborer  worthy  of  his  hire,  to  pay 
him  in  a  direct  way  and  without  grudging.  Donation  visits  and 
parties  are  little  less  than  outrages  upon  the  feelings  of  a  minis- 
ter and  his  family,  and  I,  for  one,  will  have  nothing  more  to  do 
with  them.  If  you  like  me  well  enough  to  give  me  an  inde- 
pendent support  I  will  remain  with  you.  If  not,  say  so  at  once, 
and  I  will  remove  to  another  place." 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Edwards  is  still  in  the  old  parish,  and  is  paid, 
in  money,  a  salary  that  he  finds  equal  to  the  comfortable  main- 
tainance  of  his  family.  His  congregation  is  quite  as  self-satis- 
fied as  in  the  times  of  donation  visits  and  parties,  and  the  min- 
ister a  great  deal  more  so.  The  plain  speech  of  an  independent 
man,  though  it  disturb  and  wound  the  self-love  of  many,  is 
usually  productive  of  good.  It  was  so  in  this  case,  and  would 
be  so  in  hundreds  of  similar  cases,  if  those  who  are  worried  as 
he  was  would  speak  out  as  plainly  what  is  in  their  minds. 


TREASURE  ON  EARTH,  AND  TREA- 
SURE IN  HEAVEN. 


Mr.  Benedict  Percival,  one  of  the  wealthiest  men  in  the  city, 
sat  reading  a  newspaper,  when  three  gentlemen  entered  his 
counting  room  in  the  formal  manner  in  which  committee  men 
usually  present  themselves — especially  committee  men  appointed 
to  raise  a  subscription  for  some  public  charity.  When  Mr.  Per- 
cival opened  his  newspaper  that  morning,  the  first  paragraph 
that  met  his  eyes  was  the  following : 

"  At  the  town  meeting  held  yesterday,  a  committee  of  three 
from  each  ward  was  appointed  to  wait  upon  our  citizens  to  re- 
ceive their  subscriptions  in  aid  of  the  sufferers  by  the  late  de- 
structive fire  in  our  sister  city.  This  duty  will  be  entered  upon 
at  once.  We  trust  that  the  gentlemen  who  have  the  matter  in 
charge,  will  meet  with  a  hearty  reception  from  our  liberal  mind- 
ed and  benevolent  townsmen.  We  may  lead  the  van  in  this 
noble  work,  if  we  will.  Let  us  do  it." 

Over  this  Mr.  Percival  pondered  for  some  time,  with  his  fore- 
finger upon  his  lip  and  his  eyes  upon  the  ceiling.  At  length,  as 
if  his  action  in  the  matter  were  definitely  settled,  he  resumed  the 
reading  of  his  newspaper,  and  was  engaged  in  that  agreeable 
occupation  when  the  committee  of  gentlemen  alluded  to  above, 
called  in  at  his  counting  room. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Percival,"  said  the  spokesman. 

"  Good  morning,  gentlemen,"  responded  Mr.  Percival,  rising. 

"  We  need  hardly  state  our  business,"  said  the  spokesman. 
"  You  presided  at  the  meeting,  yesterday,  and  having  assisted 
in  the  appointment  of  the  committees  for  the  several  wards,  are 
aware  that  our  duty  in  this  one  is  to  wait  upon  our  fellow  citi- 

396 


TREASURE   ON   EARTH,  AND    TREASURE   IN   HEAVEN.       397 

zens  for  their  subscriptions.  We  have  called  upon  you  to  get 
your  name  at  the  head  of  the  list.  Having  that  to  lead  off  with, 
our  task  will  be  an  easy  one,  and  the  result  equal  to  our  best 
hopes.  Your  subscription  we  of  course  know  will  be  liberal,  and 
that  will  induce  other  men  of  ample  means,  upon  whom  we  shall 
wait,  in  succession,  to  put  down  large  sums.  By  this  plan  we 
hope  to  make  our  ward  double  the  amount  subscribed  by  any 
other  ward  in  the  city." 

"  We  can  easily  do  that,"  returned  Mr.  Percival.  "  We  have 
wealth  enough.  But  I  must  decline  heading  the  list.  Let  Mr. 

R lead  off.     He  will  do  it  handsomely,  without  doubt.   Or, 

Mr.  S will  start  your  subscription  liberally." 

The  committee  men  urged  Mr.  Percival  to  comply  with  their 
first  request,  but  he  was  firm  in  declining;  and  ultimately  told 
them  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  place  his  name  last  upon 
the  subscription  paper. 

A  week  after  this  interview,  the  rich  merchant  was  again 
waited  upon.  The  list  needed  only  his  name  to  complete  it. 

"  How  much  have  you  got?''  he  asked. 

"  We  have  not'  done  as  well  as  we  expected,"  was  replied. 
"  If  you  had  led  off,  we  should  no  doubt  have  done  much 
better." 

Who  headed  the  list  ?" 

Mr.  R ." 

With  how  much  ?" 

One  hundred  dollars." 

Humph !     Let  me  see  the  paper." 

It  was  handed  to  the  merchant.  He  ran  his  eye  over  it,  say- 
ing, half  aloud,  as  he  did  so — 

"  One  hundred — one  hundred — one  hundred — nothing  above 
a  hundred.     What  does  it  all  amount  to?" 

"  Five  thousand  dollars." 

The  merchant  took  up  a  pen  and  wrote  his  name  with  a  flour- 
ish. Opposite  to  it  he  placed  a  numeral  and  four  cyphers,  with 
the  dollar  mark  before  them,  thus— $5,000.  Then,  with  a  bow, 
and  a  glow  of  self-satisfaction  upon  his  face,  he  handed  the  pa- 
per back  to  the  gentlemen  who  had  wraited  upon  him. 

"  Nobly  done  !  Mr.  Percival,"  said  the  spokesman.  "  You 
have  saved  the  credit  of  our  ward.  I  have  strong  hopes,  now, 
that  we  shall  lead  any  two  of  them  put  together." 

Two  or  three  days  after  this$  the  newspapers  announced  the 
34 


398  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

result  of  the  subscription  raised  in  the  various  wards  in  the  city. 
The  particular  instances  of  liberality  were  named,  conspicuous 
among  which  stood  the  fact  that  Benedict  Percival,  Esq.,  who 
was  "  ever  foremost  in  acts  of  benevolence,"  had  subscribed  the 
handsome  sum  of  five  thousand  dollars;  had  in  fact,  "just 
doubled  the  subscription  of  the  ward  in  which  he  resided." 

There  lived  in  the  city  where  this  fact  occurred,  a  poor  widow, 
in  feeble  health,  who  had  three  children.  Her  only  means  of 
subsistence  lay  in  her  ability  to  do  plain  sewing.  Early  and  late 
she  sat  over  her  work ;  often  in  pain  and  oppressive  weakness, 
but  the  result  of  her  labor  was  ever  insufficient  for  the  many 
wants  of  her  little  family. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  a  long  and  hard  Winter,  and  the  wi- 
dow's greater  expense  for  warm  clothing  for  her  children,  and 
extra  fuel,  consumed  all  of  her  little  earnings,  thus  leaving  noth- 
ing for  the  rent.  She  occupied  two  small  rooms  in  a  retired 
court,  for  which  she  paid  a  weekly  rent  of  one  dollar.  She  was 
the  under-tenant  of  a  man  who  rented  all  the  houses  on  one  side 
of  the  court,  and  by  letting  them  out  again  to  poor  families,  at 
a  weekly  or  monthly  rent,  not  only  saved  his  own  rent,  but  made 
from  two  to  three  hundred  dollars  a  year  besides.  Of  course, 
he  was  a  hard  man,  and  would  have  nothing  less  than  his  own, 
no  matter  how  much  others  were  injured  in  his  efforts  to  obtain  it. 

Since  the  Fall,  the  poor  widow  had  been  slow  about  paying 
her  rent.  Sometimes  she  had  only  a  quarter  of  a  dollar  to  give 
her  importunate  landlord ;  and  sometimes  she  could  give  him 
nothing.  He  had  scolded,  and  threatened,  and  warned  her  to 
leave  the  premises ;  but  still  it  availed  not  to  bring  him  his  due. 
Food  and  fuel  the  woman  must  have  for  her  children;  after  these 
were  obtained,  there  was  little  or  nothing  left  from  her  earnings. 
Thus  it  went  on,  until  seven  dollars  were  due  for  rent,  when  the 
landlord  became  seriously  alarmed,  lest,  in  a  last  resort,  which 
was  often  made  by  him  at  little  or  no  cost  of  feeling,  there  should 
not  be  enough  in  the  widow's  two  rooms,  that  the  law  would  al- 
low him  to  seize,  for  the  liquidation  of  his  petty  claim.  He  at 
once  informed  the  widow,  that,  unless  she  paid  him  what  was 
due,  immediately,  he  would  sell  her  out. 

"  But  you  know  I  cannot  do  that,"  said  the  unhappy  woman 

"  Go  and  borrow  "it  from  some  one." 

The  widow  shook  her  head. 

"  You  do  sewing  for  several  families.     Go  to  them  and  tell 


TREASURE  ON  EARTH,  AND  TREASURE  IN  HEAVEN.   399 

them  that  you  will  be  turned  into  the  street  if  they  do  not  lend 
you  enough  money  to  pay  your  rent.  It  will  be  but  a  dollar  a 
piece  from  seven  different  individuals.  Do  it,  and  the  money  will 
come  quickly  enough." 

"  I  have  no  hope  of  returning  it ;  and,  to  borrow  under  such 
circumstances,  would  be  dishonest." 

"  It  is  just  as  dishonest  not  to  pay  your  rent,"  said  the  petty 
landlord,  harshly. 

The  widow  answered  nothing. 

"  You  can  do  as  you  please,"  resumed  the  unfeeling  man. 
"  But  I  can  tell  you  one  thing — if  I  don't  get  my  rent  to-morrow, 
I  shall  obtain  it  in  the  quickest  possible  way,  and  let  these  rooms 
to  some  one  who  will  pay  a  deal  better  than  you  have  ever  done. 
So  you  know  what  you  have  to  depend  upon." 

With  this  the  landlord  went  away,  and  the  widow  was  left  to 
her  own  sad  thoughts.  The  oldest  of  her  children  was  a  boy 
between  eleven  and  twelve  years  of  age.  The  other  two  were 
girls;  the  youngest  three  years  old.  The  public  schools  afforded 
the  means  of  education  to  these  children ;  and  it  was  the  mo- 
ther's aim  to  keep  them  together  as  long  as  possible,  that  they 
might  enjoy  the  advantages  so  liberally  provided  for  the  poor  as 
well  as  the  rich.  Charles,  her  son,  was  advancing  very  rapidly, 
and  in  a  few  mouths  she  hoped  to  see  him  in  the  high  school, 
where  she  meant  to  strive  hard  to  keep  him  for  at  least  a  two 
year's  course,  before  he  left  home  to  learn  some  trade  or  to  go 
into  a  store.  This  lad  was  present  during  the  brief  interview 
that  passed  between  his  mother  and  her  landlord.  His  young 
blood  grew  hot  in  his  veins,  and  he  wished,  for  his  mother's 
sake,  that  he  were  a  man. 

Charles  went  to  school  with  a  heavy  heart.  He  understood, 
from  what  had  been  said,  clearly,  the  extremity  in  which  his 
mother  was  placed.  And  he  also  knew  that  the  threat  of  seizing 
upon  their  things  and  selling  them,  would  be  executed  on  the 
next  day,  unless  the  rent  were  paid,  for  more  than  one  distraint 
had  taken  place,  at  the  instance  of  this  man,  within  the  past 
year,  and  helpless  widows  and  children  stripped  of  their  all  with- 
out compunction,  and  turned  into  the  streets.  Young  as  the 
child  was,  he  had  been  eye  witness  to  such  scenes  of  distress. 
No  wonder  that  his  heart  was  heavy. 

At  school,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  talk  among  the  boys  about 
the  large  subscription  that  had  been  raised  for  the  sufferers  by 


400  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

the  terrible  fire  in  a  Western  city,  the  amount  of  which  had  been 
published  in  the  morning  papers.  The  fact  that  Mr.  Benedict 
Percival,  the  rich  merchant,  had  given  five  thousand  dollars,  was 
particularly  dwelt  upon.  His  praise  was  upon  all  lips;  and  he 
was  spoken  of  as  one  of  the  most  benevolent  men  in  the  city. 

Suddenly  it  flashed  through  the  mind  of  the  lad  that  if  Mr. 
Percival  was  so  rich  and  benevolent  as  to  be  able  and  willing  to 
give  five  thousand  dollars  for  the  relief  of  suffering  in  another 
city,  he  would  be  willing  to  lend  or  give  his  mother  seven  dol- 
lars to  prevent  her  little  all  from  being  taken  from  her,  and  she 
and  her  children  turned  into  the  street  in  the  dead  of  Winter. 
The  thought  made  his  young  heart  beat  quicker  and  his  cheek  to 
burn.  Until  dinner  time,  he  pondered  this  over,  his  mind  feel- 
ing more  confident  each  moment,  that  relief  would  be  obtained  if 
application  were  made  to  Mr.  Percival. 

When  Charles  came  home  from  school,  after  the  morning  ses- 
sion, the  face  of  his  mother  was  full  of  distress.  Though  the 
boy  tried  to  eat  when  he  sat  down  to  dinner,  he  could  with  diffi- 
culty swallow  his  food.  He  left  the  table  in  a  few  minutes,  and, 
without  speaking  a  word,  took  up  his  hat  and  hurried  from  the 
room.  Before  leaving  school,  he  had  inquired  of  the  boys  the 
direction  of  Mr.  Percival's  store,  and  towards  this  he  now  di- 
rected his  steps. 

The  public  announcement  of  his  great  liberality,  united,  as  it 
was,  with  high  encomiums  upon  him  as  "  one  of  our  wealthiest 
and  most  benevolent  citizens,"  was  particularly  gratifying  to 
Benedict  Percival,  Esq.  He  read  the  various  paragraphs  that 
met  his  eyes  with  the  liveliest  satisfaction;  and  enjoyed  a  higher 
degree  of  self  complacency  than  he  had  known  for  a  long  time. 
It  was  especially  agreeable  to  him  to  find  that  the  largest  sub- 
scription made  by  any  one  except  himself,  was  only  five  hundred 
dollars ;  and  that  this  sum  was  subscribed  by  a  merchant  who 
was  reputed  to  be  worth  several  hundred  thousand  dollars  more 
than  himself.  Here  was  a  triumph  not  often  to  be  had  ;  and  it 
was  richly  enjoyed.  Numerous  were  the  congratulations  he  re- 
ceived for  being  the  possessor  of  such  charitable  feelings,  united 
with  the  means  of  gratifying  them  to  the  fullest  extent.  It  was 
a  happy  day  for  Mr.  Percival.  Verily,  he  had  his  reward  in  the 
praise  of  men.  How  much  treasure  was  laid  up  in  Heaven  by 
the  act,  we  cannot  say — we  have  no  means  of  determining  this. 

About  one  o'clock,  while  Mr.  Percival  was  sitting  alone  in  his 


TREASURE  ON  EARTH,  AND  TREASURE  IN  HEAVEN.   401 

private  counting-room,  thinking  pleasantly  of  what  he  had  done 
for  the  good  of  his  fellow  men,  and  pondering  that  significant 
passage  of  Holy  Writ — "  Charity  covers  a  multitude  of  sins" — 
a  lad  entered  with  a  timid  look  and  a  hesitating  step. 

"Well,  sir!  What  do  you  want?"  said  the  merchant,  in  a 
rather  forbidding  tone,  contracting  his  brows  as  he  spoke. 

The  child  paused  suddenly,  at  this  reception,  so  different  from 
what  he  had  evidently  expected,  and  looked  half  frightened. 
But  he  gathered  up  his  scattered  confidence  and  told  his  errand 
thus, — 

"  My  mother  has  got  no  money  to  pay  her  rent,  and  the  man 
is  going  to  sell  her  things  and  turn  all  of  us  into  the  street. 
She  only  owes  him  seven  dollass.  Won't  you  lend  it  to  her,  sir?" 

Mr.  Percival  looked  at  the  lad  a  moment,  really  astonished  at 
his  assurance,  and  then  said — 

"  Begone,  sir !  I  never  encourage  street  begging.  If  your 
mother  isn't  able  to  pay  her  rent,  she  had  better  take  you  all  to 
the  alms  house,  where  you  will  be  well  taken  care  of." 

Saying  this,  the  benevolent  merchant  took  the  lad  somewhat 
rudely  by  the  arm,  and  leading  him  to  the  door  of  the  room  in 
which  he  had  been  sitting,  thrust  him  into  the  one  adjoining, 
through  which  he  had  come,  where  were  several  clerks ;  saying 
to  the  latter,  as  he  did  so,  in  a  rough,  peremptory  voice, 

"  Don't  let  any  more  beggars  in  here.  You  know  I  have  for- 
bidden this  over  and  over  again." 

"  I  shall  be  overrun  by  all  the  mendicants  in  town,"  mutterd 
Mr.  Percival  to  himself,  as  he  resumed  his  seat.  "  So  much  for 
having  one's  name  up  as  a  benevolent  man." 

WThen  Charles  came  to  school  that  afternoon,  his  teacher  no- 
ticed that  he  had  been  weeping,  and  that  he  seemed  to  be  in  a 
good  deal  of  distress.  But,  though  he  asked  him  as  to  the  cause, 
the  lad  did  not  reply  directly  to  his  questions.  Several  times 
during  the  afternoon  the  teacher  noticed  that  Charles  wiped  the 
tears  from  his  eyes,  and  that  his  mind  was  so  much  disturbed 
that  he  could  not  say  his  lessons.  He  mentioned  this  to  his  fe- 
male assistant.  As  Charles  was  leaving  the  school-room  to  go 
home,  on  the  dismissal  of  his  class,  this  young  lady,  who  had 
observed  him  frequently  since  her  attention  had  been  called  to 
him,  took  him  kindly  by  the  hand  and  said — 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Charles  ?  You  appear  to  be 
very  unhappy." 


402  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

The  lad  paused  and  looked  up  into  her  face.  His  eyes  were 
full  of  tears,  and  his  lips  quivered.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  he 
could  not  utter  a  word. 

"  Is  any  one  sick  at  home  ?"  asked  the  teacher. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  the  lad  faintly  replied. 

The  young  girl,  for  the  teacher  was  quite  young,  stood  silent 
a  moment.  She  knew  that  the  mother  of  the  boy  was  poor ;  and 
from  the  peculiar  way  in  which  he  was  distressed,  she  imme- 
diately suspected  that  something  was  wrong  at  home. 

"  Is  any  thing  the  matter  at  home  that  you  would  like  to  tell 
me  ?"  she  asked. 

By  this  time  most  of  the  children  had  left  the  room,  and  the 
teacher  and  the  lad  stood  quite  alone.  The  tears  that  had  been 
blinding  the  latter  ever  since  his  teacher  had  spoken  to  him,  now 
fell  over  his  cheeks  freely.  But  in  a  little  while,  he  was  able  to 
restrain  them,  when  he  told  of  the  distress  his  mother  was  in, 
and  how,  if  the  rent  were  not  paid  in  the  morning,  her  things 
would  all  be  taken  away  from  her  and  they  turned  out  of  doors. 
He  also  related,  in  a  most  earnest  and  artless  manner,  how  he 
had  called  upon  Mr.  Percival,  without  saying  any  thing  to  his 
mother,  hoping  that  he  would  lend  them  money  to  pay  their  rent. 
When  he  told  of  the  cruel  and  unexpected  repulse  with  which  he 
had  met,  his  tears  flowed  again. 

"  But  the  man  certainly  will  not  do  as  he  has  threatened," 
said  the  teacher. 

'•  Oh,  yes  he  will,"  replied  Charles.  "  He  sold  every  thing 
Mrs.  Ellis  had,  this  winter,  because  she  didn't  pay  him  his  rent; 
and  she  had  to  take  little  George  and  Mar)-  and  go  to  the  poor 
house.  Oh,  yes ! — he  will  do  it." 

"  How  much  rent  does  your  mother  owe  ?" 

"  Seven  dollars." 

The  young  teacher  was  again  silent  and  thoughtful.  If  she 
had  possessed  the  sum  required,  how  gladly  would  she  have 
placed  it  in  the  hands  of  the  boy,  and  sent  him  home  with  glad 
tidings  to  his  mother  1  But  it  took  all  of  her  salary  to  support  a 
widowed  mother,  in  bad  health,  and  she  had,  therefore,  nothing 
to  spare. 

"  Go  home,  Charles,"  she  at  length  said,  "  and  tell  your 
mother  that  I  will  come  and  see  her  to-night.  Something  must 
be  done  to  prevent  this  man  from  distressing  her." 

The  boy  turned  and  walked  quickly  away.     His  step  was 


TREASURE  ON  EARTH,  AND  TREASURE  IN  HEAVEN.   403 

much  lighter  than  it  was  when  he  came  to  school,  for  now  there 
was  hope  again  in  his  young  heart. 

The  night  that  succeeded  to  this  day  was  very  cold.  The 
wind  swept  round  to  the  north  east  towards  evening,  and  brought 
a  heavy  snow  storm,  that  thinned  the  streets  of  passengers.  Af- 
ter an  early  tea,  the  young  teacher,  with  two  dollars  in  her  pock- 
et, one  received  from  the  principal  of  the  school,  and  the  other 
her  own  contribution,  set  forth  on  the  errand  of  mercy  she  had 
proposed  to  herself,  which  was  to  obtain,  from  such  persons  as 
she  knew,  and  felt  free  to  call  upon,  a  sum  sufficient  to  pay  the 
poor  widow's  rent.  One  or  two  upon  whom  she  called,  de- 
clined giving  any  thing,  saying  that  if  the  woman  were  not 
able  to  pay  her  rent,  she  had  better  go,  with  her  children, 
to  the  alms  house,  where  she  and  they  would  be  well  taken 
care  of.  They  disapproved,  from  principle,  of  private  chari- 
ties— it  did  more  harm  than  good.  Others  gave  her  small 
sums,  such  as  quarter  and  half  dollars — and  one  poor  widow  put 
in  a  dollar  from  her  little  store.  Those  who  were  most  able 
gave  the  least.  It  was  past  nine  o'clock  before  the  sum  needed 
was  made  up. 

With  a  light  heart,  the  noble-minded  young  girl  started  for  the 
humble  abode  of  the  distressed  widow.  On  her  way  thither, 
bending  in  the  fierce  gusts  of  wind  and  snow,  she  passed  the 
splendid  dwelling  of  Benedict  Percival,  Esq.,  the  benevolent 
merchant.  He  sat,  in  his  luxurious  parlor,  with  his  family  around 
him,  musing  upon  the  act  that  had  for  some  days  engrossed  most 
of  his  thoughts,  more  than  half  inclined  to  think  that  the  public 
did  not  fully  appreciate  what  he  had  done,  and  in  an  incipient 
state  of  repentance  for  having  thrown  such  a  large  sum  of  money 
away,  when  a  thousand  dollars  would  have  done  just  as  well ; 
while  the  young  girl  hurried  by  in  the  storm,  her  heart  already 
receiving  th^  rich  reward  that  true  benevolence  is  sure  to  bring 
— a  reward  imcomparably  greater  than  what  comes  as  the  re- 
sult of  deeds  of  charity,  no  matter  how  munificent,  done  for  the 
praise  of  men. 

Usually,  Charles  retired  early  ;  but  this  evening  he  sat  up, 
hopefully  awaiting  the  coming  of  his  teacher.  Since  seven 
o'clock,  he  had  eagerly  listened  to  the  sound  of  every  approach- 
ing footstep,  and  often  and  often  had  his  young  heart  grown  al- 
most sick  with  disappointment. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  go  to  bed,  Charles  ?"  said  the  mother, 


404  SKETCHES    OF  LIFE   AND    CHABACTER. 

long  before  nine  o'clock.  "It  is  too  stormy  a  night  for  your 
teacher  to  come  out.  I  am  sure  she  will  not  be  here." 

"  Oh,  yes  she  will !  I  know  she  will  come,"  replied  the  boy. 
And  thus  he  answered,  every  time  his  mother  urged  him  to  go 
to  bed. 

Time  had  stolen  on,  until  it  was  near  ten  o'clock.  The  wind 
roared  without,  and  the  snow  rushed  against  the  windows.  The 
widow  looked  up  from  her  work,  and  was  about  repeating  her 
request  that  Charles  would  go  to  bed,  when  she  observed  that 
he  had  fallen  asleep  in  his  chair.  Her  heart  was  touched  as 
she  looked  at  the  unconscious  boy,  and  thought  of  the  share  in 
her  troubles  that  he  had  voluntarily  assumed.  While  her  eyes 
still  rested  upon  him,  there  came  a  low  rap  at  the  door.  On 
opening  it,  a  young  and  slender  girl  stepped  in  a  few  paces,  say- 
ing, as  she  did  so — 

"  I  promised  your  little  boy  that  I  would  call  and  see  you  to- 
night. I  thought  to  have  been  earlier,  but  couldn't  get  round 
sooner.  Heaven  has  sent  you,  through  me,  enough  money  to 
pay  your  rent  to-morrow.  Here  it  is."  She  handed  the  widow 
a  small  package  of  money.  "  It  comes  from  those  who  have 
hearts  to  feel  for  others." 

Then  partly  turning  away,  and  before  the  woman  had  time  to 
say  any  thing,  she  added — 

"  It  is  late,  and  I  must  hurry  home.  Mother  will  be  uneasy 
at  my  staying  so  long  away.  Good  night.  Charles,  I  see,  has 
fallen  asleep,  but  he  will  know  I  have  been  here.  Good  night !" 

And  ere  the  widow  could  utter  a  word  of  thanks,  she  was 
away. 

That  night  Mr.  Benedict  Percival  lay  awake  for  hours,  unable 
to  sleep  for  thinking  of  the  error  he  had  doubtless  committed,  in 
giving  five  thousand  dollars  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  had  suf- 
fered by  the  fire,  when  one  thousand  would  have  told  quite  as 
well  upon  the  public.  Moth  and  rust  were  already  beginning  to 
corrupt  the  treasure  he  had  laid  up  on  the  earth. 

The  head  of  the  young  teacher  had  not  pressed  its  pillow  long, 
before  all  her  senses  were  locked  in  gentle  slumber.  Sweet 
dreams  accompanied  her  through  the  night,  and  when  the  sun 
smiled  in  at  her  windows  in  the  morning,  she  blessed  the  day 
and  was  happy  She  had  laid  up  treasure  in  Heaven. 


THE  ENGRAVER'S  DAUGHTER. 


THE  ENGRAVER'S  DAUGHTER. 


Little  Dora  Stilling  was  but  six  years  old  when  her  best  friend 
went  to  Heaven.  She  was  a  beautiful  child,  and  her  father, 
Mark  Stilling,  an  old  engraver,  loved  her  with  a  species  of  blind 
idolatry.  Stilling  was  by  birth  a  German,  and  his  reading  had 
not  gone  much  beyond  the  childish  romances  peculiar  to  his 
country,  which  had  left  upon  his  mind  an  indelible  impression. 
At  twelve  years  old  he  was  apprenticed  to  an  engraver,  and 
since  that  time  had  seen  little  of  the  world  beyond  the  room  in 
•which  his  noiseless  occupation  happened  to  be.  His  mind  there- 
fore, remained  half  asleep,  and  the  dreams  that  passed  through 
it  had  little  in  common  with  the  real  life  around  him.  He  was 
an  old  man  when  he  married,  and  his  wife,  who  passed  with 
many,  who  did  not  know  better,  as  his  daughter,  died  a  few 
years  after  their  only  child,  Dora,  was  born. 

Upon  the  death  of  his  wife  the  heart  of  Mark  Stilling  turned 
toward  the  sweet  child  that  she  had  left  him,  with  an  affection 
made  jealous  and  intenser  by  his  loss.  For  her  he  desired  all 
good  in  the  world's  power  to  bestow  ;  but  as  to  what  was  the 
greatest  good  he  had  but  vague  notions.  As  he  grew  older,  and 
his  mind  drooped  toward  second  childhood,  from  the  ideas  and 
feelings  of  his  earlier  years  the  dust  of  time  was  blown  away, 
and  all  was  distinct  and  fresh  as  if  the  spring  time  of  life  were 
but  yesterday.  Images  of  beautiful  maidens,  wooed  by  princes 
in  disguise,  floated  before  his  imagination ;  and  then  his  thoughts 
would  turn  to  Dora,  who  grew  more  and  more  lovely  in  his  eyes 
every  day.  Nothing  short  of  some  such  consummation  for  his 
child,  he  felt,  would  ever  satisfy  him. 

405 


406  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

It  was  little  wonder  that  the  old  engraver  loved  Dora  with  an 
absorbing  affection  ;  for,  opening  like  a  rose,  she  displayed  to  his 
eyes  some  new  feature  of  loveliness  every  day,  as  well  in  mind 
as  in  body.  While  he  sat  at  his  work,  tracing  out  upon  the 
hard,  polished  steel,  forms  of  beauty,  Dora  was  ever  present  in 
his  mind,  more  beautiful  than  any  creation  of  the  painter's  pen- 
cil he  had  yet  been  commissioned  to  copy. 

Swiftly  the  years  glided  on,  and  Dora  became  less  and  less  a 
child.  As  soon  as  she  was  able  to  go  to  school,  she  was  placed 
under  the  care  of  the  best  teachers  in  the  city,  and  from  that  time 
every  dollar  earned  by  Stilling,  beyond  what  the  simple  wants 
of  nature  demanded,  was  spent  upon  his  daughter,  that  she 
might  be  thoroughly  accomplished  in  every  thing,  and  thus  made  a 
fit  companion  for  the  best  in  the  land.  He  wished  her  to  be,  in 
one  word,  a  lady — and,  in  the  engraver's  mind,  a  lady  was  some- 
thing more  than  the  term  conveys  in  its  usual  acceptation. 

But  as  Dora  grew  up,  lovely  and  accomplished  as  her  parent's 
heart  could  desire,  she  exhibited  a  simplicity  of  tase  and  a  love 
for  useful  employments,  that  her  father  did  not,  in  the  least,  ap- 
prove. Fond  old  man  !  Half  insane,  under  the  delusion  him- 
self had  conjured  up  from  among  his  early  fancies,  he  felt,  when- 
ever Dora's  hands  were  engaged  in  work,  that  she  was  degra- 
ding herself,  and  ever  sought  to  keep  her  above  the  necessity  of 
entering  into  any  domestic  occupation.  Dora,  as  her  mind  grew 
clearer,  saw  the  weakness  and  folly  of  all  this.  She  saw  that 
her  father  was  old,  and  growing  feebler  and  less  able  to  work 
every  day,  and  that  his  income  was  steadily  decreasing ;  and 
she  felt  that,  before  a  very  long  time,  upon  her  would  fall  the 
burden  of  his  as  well  as  her  own  support.  One  day  she  came 
to  him,  and  said — 

"  Dear  father,  you  are  getting  old,  and  your  strength  is  fail- 
ing. Let  me  go  and  learn  a  trade,  and  then  I  can  work  for 
you." 

The  old  man  caught  for  breath  two  or  three  times,  like  one 
suddenly  deprived  of  air. 

"  A  trade,  did  you  say,  child  ?"     He  spoke  in  a  low  whisper. 

"  Yes,  father,  a  trade.  Let  me  learn  some  trade,  so  that  I 
can  help  you.  I  am  young,  and  you  are  old.  You  have  work- 
ed for  me  since  I  was  a  child  ;  now  let  me  work  for  you." 

"  No,  no,  Dora !  You  shall  not  learn  a  trade,"  replied  Stil- 
ling, firmly.  Then  he  added,  in  a  chiding  voice,  "  How  could 


THE  ENGRAVER'S  DAUGHTER.  407 

you  think  of  such  a  thing!  You  must  look  higher,  my  child. 
You  are  as  good  as  any  lady  in  the  land,  and  may  take  the 
place  of  the  best."  Here  his  voice  grew  animated.  "  Don't 
you  remember  the  story  of  the  light-haired  maiden  whom  the 
king's  son  saw,  and  loved  her  better  than  all  the  proud  court- 
ladies,  because  she  was  beautiful  and  good  ;  and  how  he  came 
in  a  splendid  chariot,  and  carried  her  away  and  made  her  his 
bride  ?  True,  there  are  no  kings  here" — the  old  man  faintly 
sighed — "  but  there  are  many  rich  and  great  people.  No — no 
— Dora,  you  shall  not  learn  a  trade." 

Dora  understood  well  what  her  father  meant  by  these  allu- 
sions, for  he  had  often  talked  so  before,  and  sometimes  more 
plainly  ;  and  she  knew  that  it  would  be  of  no  use  to  argue 
against  him.  So  she  said  no  more  about  learning  a  trade.  But 
engaged  more  diligently  in  every  useful  thing  that  came  to  her 
hand,  and  sought,  by  every  means  in  her  power,  to  aid  her  fath- 
er's comfort. 

Almost  alone  as  Mark  Stilling  was,  and  possessing  none  of 
those  cultivated  tastes  and  accomplishments  necessary  for  one 
who  would  introduce  a  young  girl  like  his  daughter  into  society, 
the  old  man  saw  weeks  and  months  go  by,  after  Dora  had  be- 
come a  woman,  and  yet  his  lovely  flower  remained  hidden  by 
the  wayside.  He  looked  upon  her  as  she  came  in  and  went  out, 
and  wondered  that  all  the  world  was  not  captivated  by  her  beau- 
ty. And  as  he  grew  older,  and  his  intellect  became  feebler  and 
feebler,  this  one  idea  took  a  still  stronger  hold  upon  his  mind. 

Dora,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  began  to  feel  great  concern  for 
her  father.  Both  body  and  mind,  it  was  plain  to  her,  were  fail- 
ing rapidly  ;  and  orders  for  work  were  much  less  frequent  than 
they  had  been.  But  even  if  work  had  been  as  abundant  as  be- 
fore, he  had  less  ability  to  perform  it ;  and  this  was  daily  de- 
creasing. Again  she  asked  permission  to  learn  a  trade;  but  it 
was  met  with  as  firm  an  opposition  as  before,  and  on  the  same 
ground. 

"  I  must  have  some  means  of  supporting  myself  and  father," 
she  said  thoughtfully  to  herself,  "  for  it  will  not  be  long  that  he 
can  keep  at  work.  What  shall  I  do  ?  He  will  not  let  me  learn 
a  tra:le.  She  reflected  for  a  long  time,  and  then,  as  if  all  had 
become  clear  to  her,  she  clapped  her  hands  together  and  mur- 
mured— "  Yes — yes.  That  shall  be  it!  I  will  devote  myself  to 
my  music  until  I  become  proficient  enough  to  teach." 


408  SKETCHES   OF   LIFE    AND   CHARACTER. 

Already  much  money  had  been  expended  on  Dora's  musical 
education,  and  she  played  and  sung  well.  But  she  was  not 
skilful  enough  to  be  able  to  give  instructions.  So  from  that  time 
she  spent  many  hours  each  day  at  her  piano  ;  and  also  practiced 
on  the  guitar.  As  the  old  man  listened  to  her  warblings,  how 
little  dreamed  he  that  all  this  was  but  the  learning  of  a  trade, 
against  which  his  mind  had  so  revolted. 

As  we  have  said,  the  old  man  became  less  and  less  compe- 
tent to  perform  his  work  well  and  expeditiously,  and  it  gradually 
left  him  and  went  into  other  hands.  His  income  thus  reduced, 
it  became  necessary  to  abridge  the  expenses  of  his  household,  or 
fall  in  debt,  something  for  which  Stilling  had  a  natural  horror. 
The  first  step  downward,  and  one  that  it  hurt  the  engraver  much 
to  take,  was  the  giving  up  of  the  neat  little  house  in  which  he 
had  lived,  and  taking  apartments  in  a  second  story,  at  half  the 
rent  formerly  paid.  Dora  urged  strongly,  when  this  change  was 
made,  to  have  their  domestic  sent  away. 

"  I  can  do  all  the  work,  father.  Let  Ellen  go,  and  then  we 
will  save  nearly  half  our  living." 

But  the  old  man  would  not  listen  a  moment  to  this,  and  si- 
lenced his  daughter  by  an  emphatic  "  No." 

Yet  for  all  this  care  in  keeping  Dora  above  the  sphere  of  use- 
fulness, her  charms  had  not  won  for  her  a  distinguished  lover.  Still 
Dora  had  a  lover,  and  this  was  less  wonderful  than  it  would 
have  been  had  her  sweet  face  not  pictured  itself  on  some  heart. 
But  her  lover  was  only  a  humble  clerk  in  a  store  where  she  had 
often  been  to  make  purchases.  He  was  as  simple  and  earnest 
in  all  his  tastes  and  feelings  as  Dora  herself.  Their  meetings 
were  not  frequent,  for  young  Edwards  had  been  told  of  the  old 
engraver's  weakness,  and  did  not,  therefore,  venture  to  call  upon 
his  sweetheart  at  her  home. 

At  length  so  little  work  came  that  Stilling  did  not  receive  more 
than  sufficient  money  to  buy  food,  and  actual  privation  began  to 
creep  in  upon  himself  and  daughter.  Stern  necessity  required 
the  dismissal  of  their  domestic,  and  then  the  old  man  busied 
himself  in  household  matters,  in  order  to  keep  Dora  as  far  as 
possible  above  such  menial  employments.  As  age  crept  on,  and 
his  intellects  grew  still  weaker,  he  clasped  his  fond  delusion  more 
closely  to  his  heart,  and  observed  all  of  Dora's  movements  with 
a  more  jealous  eye. 

For  as  long  a  time  as  two  years  had  the  faith  of  Dora  and  her 


THE  ENGRAVER'S  DAUGHTER.  409 

lover  been  pledged.  Their  meetings  were  generally  in  the  street, 
on  a  certain  appointed  afternoon  of  each  week.  Then  they  walk- 
ed together  and  talked  about  the  future,  when  there  should  be  no 
barrier  to  their  happiness.  But  the  young  man,  as  time  wore 
on,  grew  impatient ;  and  his  pride  occasionally  awakened,  tell- 
ing him  that  he  was  as  good  as  the  old  engraver,  and  worthy, 
in  every  respect,  to  claim  the  hand  of  his  daughter.  Sometimes 
this  feeling  showed  itself  to  Dora,  when  the  maiden  would  be  so 
hurt  that  Edwards  always  repented  of  his  hasty  words,  and  re- 
solved to  be  more  guarded  in  future. 

"  Let  me  call  and  see  you  at  your  father's,"  said  Edwards, 
one  day,  as  they  were  walking  together ;  "  perhaps  I  may  not 
be  so  unwelcome  a  visitor  as  you  think." 

"  Oh,  no,  no !  you  must  not  think  of  it,"  replied  Dora 
quickly. 

"  But  where  is  this  to  end  ?"  inquired  the  young  man.  "  If 
he  will  not  accept  me  as  you  lover,  and  you  cannot  become 
mine  except  with  his  consent,  the  case  seems  hopeless." 

Dora  did  not  reply  at  the  moment,  and  they  walked  along  for 
iome  time  in  silence. 

"  There  is  a  way.  I  have  thought  of  it  a  great  deal,"  at 
length  said  the  young  girl.  She  spoke  with  some  hesitation  in 
her  manner. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  inquired  her  lover. 

Dora  leaned  to\vard  him,  and  said  something  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  That's  not  to  be  thought  of,"  was  the  quick  reply  of  the 
young  man. 

Dora  wras  silent,  while  her  bosom,  as  it  rose  and  fell  quickly, 
showed  that  her  feelings  were  much  disturbed. 

The  suggestion,  whatever  it  was,  appeared  to  hurt  or  offend 
the  young  man,  and  when  they  separated,  it  was  with  a  coldness 
on  his  part  that  made  tears  dim  the  eyes  of  Dora  the  moment 
sJie  turned  from  him. 

On  their  next  meeting  both  felt  constrained  ;  and  their  con- 
versation was  not  so  free  and  tender  as  before.  It  took  some 
weeks  for  the  effect  of  Dora's  proposition,  whatever  it  was,  to 
wear  off.  But  after  that  time  the  sunshine  came  back  again, 
and  was  brighter  and  warmer  than  before. 

One  day,  it  was  perhaps  four  or  five  months  after  the  little 
misunderstanding  just  mentioned,  the  old  engraver  was  visited 
35 


410  SKETCHES    OF    LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

by  a  stranger,  whose  whole  appearance  marked  him  as  either  a 
foreigner,  or  one  who  had  lived  abroad.  He  wanted  him,  he 
said,  to  copy  on  steel,  in  his  most  finished  style,  the  miniature 
of  a  lady.  As  he  mentioned  his  errand  to  the  engraver,  he  drew 
from  his  pocket  the  miniature  of  a  young  and  exquisitely  beau- 
tiful woman,  set  in  a  costly  gold  locket.  Mark  Stilling  took 
the  picture,  but  the  moment  he  looked  at  it  his  countenance 
changed. 

"  Is  it  not  a  beautiful  face  ?"  said  the  stranger. 

"  I  have  seen  it  before,"  remarked  the  engraver,  with  a  thought- 
ful air. 

"  Have  you  ?"  was  the  quick  inquiry. 

"  Yes.     But  of  whom  is  it  a  likeness  ?"  asked  the  old  man. 

"  Of  one,"  said  the  stranger,"  who  has  flitted  before  me,  of 
late,  the  impersonation  of  all  that  is  lovely  in  her  sex.  As  she 
passes  me  in  the  street,  I  gaze  after  her  as  one  would  gaze  at 
an  angel.  A  skilful  painter,  at  my  request,  has  sketched  her 
face,  taking  feature  after  feature,  as  he  could  fix  them,  until,  at 
last,  this  image  of  beauty  has  grown  under  his  pencil.  And  now 
I  want  it  transferred  to  steel,  lest  some  accident  should  deprive 
me  of  its  possession." 

While  the  stranger  thus  spoke,  Stilling  sat  gazing  upon  the 
miniature  with  the  air  of  one  bound  by  a  spell.  And  no  wonder 
— for  it  was  the  image  of  his  own  child  !  and  it  seemed,  as  he 
looked  into  the  pictured  face  intently,  as  if  the  lips  would  part 
and  the  voice  of  Dora  fall  upon  his  ears.  Then  he  turned  his 
eyes  upon  the  dignified,  princely  looking  stranger,  and  the 
thought  came  flashing  through  his  mind  that  his  dream  of  years 
was  about  being  realized.  Dora  was  the  lovely  unknown  of 
whom  he  had  spoken  with  so  much  enthusiasm  ;  with  whom  he 
was  so  passionately  enamored. 

"  Will  yon  do  the  work  for  me  ?"  said  the  stranger,  breaking 
in  upon  the  old  man's  revery. 

«  Yes — yes,"  answered  Stilling. 

*'  How  long  do  you  want  ?" 

•«  Two  months." 

"So  long?" 

"Yes,  to  do  it  well." 

"  Take,  then,  your  own  time,  and  charge  your  own  price. 
Here  are  fifty  dollars,"  and  the  stranger  handed  the  engraver 
some  money.  "  I  will  call  every  day  while  the  work  is  progres- 


411 

sing,  that  I  may  look  at  the  sweet  picture  upon  which  you  are 
engaged." 

"  How  large  shall  it  be  ?"  inquired  the  engraver. 

"  Just  the  size  of  the  miniature,"  replied  the  stranger.  Then 
rising,  he  said,  as  he  bowed  to  Stilling,  "I  will  see  you  again 
to-morrow  about  this  hour." 

On  the  next  day,  wrhen  the  stranger  called,  Dora  was  sitting 
by  her  father.  An  exclamation  of  delight  was  checked  upon  his 
lips,  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  beautiful  girl ;  but  his  noble  face 
expressed  surprise  and  undisguised  admiration. 

"  The  lovely  original !"  dropped  at  length  from  his  tongue. 

"  My  daughter,"  said  the  engraver. 

Dora  rose  up  and  made  a  low  courtesy. 

"  Your  daughter  !  How  strange  !  You  did  not  tell  me  this 
yesterday." 

"  No.  But  she  is  my  child — my  only  child — and  I  love  her 
better  than  I  love  my  own  life." 

Light  kindled  in  the  old  man's  face,  and  a  quiver  of  excite- 
ment was  in  every  nerve.  It  was  only  by  an  effort  that  he  re- 
frained from  giving  way  to  the  most  extravagant  praises  of  Dora, 
who  sat,  with  her  eyes  meekly  cast  on  the  floor. 

On  the  next  day  the  stranger  called  again,  and  found  Dora, 
as  at  the  previous  visit,  with  her  father.  This  time  he  spoke  to 
the  maiden  in  a  familiar,  yet  respectful  way.  Every  look  he 
directed  toward  her  was  one  of  admiration  ;  yet  not  a  glance  of 
this  character  escaped  the  watchful  eyes  of  her  father. 

From  the  first,  Mark  Stilling  regarded  the  stranger  with  espe- 
cial favor.  After  the  meeting  with  Dora,  it  was  settled  in  the 
old  man's  mind  that  fortune  was  at  length  to  crown  with  joy  his 
dearest  wish  in  life.  All  suspicion  was  lulled  to  rest  in  his  mind. 
The  fact  that  the  stranger  withheld  his  name,  but  confirmed  him 
in  the  belief  that  he  was  either  a  nobleman  in  disguise,  or  con- 
nected with  some  weathy  and  distinguished  family  at  home. 

Week  followed  week,  and  the  stranger  came  every  day  to 
mark  the  progress  of  the  plate,  the  execution  of  which  he  did 
not  countermand.  He  never  staid  over  an  hour  at  a  time,  and 
that  was  mostly  spent  with  Dora,  whose  musical  abilities  he 
highly  praised,  and  whom  he  always  asked  to  play  for  him. 
The  little  parlor  of  the  engraver  was  on  a  different  floor  from  that 
on  which  he  worked,  and  so,  while  playing  for  the  stranger,  Do- 
ra was  always  alone  with  him. 


412  SKETCHES   OF    LIFE   AND    CHARACTER. 

Stilling  was  in  no  way  surprised  when  the  stranger  asked  the 
hand  of  his  daughter  in  marriage.  Dora  was  born  to  be  a  lady, 
and  now  had  come  the  fulfilment  of  her  destiny.  The  poor  old 
man's  mind  was  so  infirm  that  it  could  not  go  beyond  this  sim- 
ple idea.  No  doubt  came  to  trouble  him ;  no  suspicion  dis- 
turbed his  happy  dream.  More  than  the  stranger  told  him  he 
believed  ;  for  as  to  who  he  was,  or  to  what  station  Dora  would 
be  elevated,  he  was  silent.  But  Stilling  asked  nothing  on  this 
head.  He  believed  all  he  wished  to  believe.  The  offer  for  his 
child's  hand  he  felt  to  be  a  noble  offer,  and  he  yielded  his  full- 
est consent. 

And  so  Dora  was  married  to  the  stranger.  But  not  until  five 
minutes  before  the  ceremony  was  performed,  did  Stilling  know 
that  his  name  was  Edwards.  The  marriage  took  place  in  Stil- 
ling's  little  parlor.  After  the  rite  was  over,  and  the  minister  had 
retired,  the  bridegroom  took  the  old  man's  hand,  and  said  to 
him,  as  he  pointed  to  the  finished  plate  containing  the  head  of 
Dora. 

"  That,  father,  is  your  last  work.  You  can  rest  now,  after  so 
many  years  of  labor.  Come,  there  is  a  carriage  at  the  door ; 
we  will  go  to  our  new  home." 

Stilling  was  half  bewildered,  yet  happy.  Without  a  pause  or 
objection,  he  suffered  his  children  to  take  him  to  another  home. 
That  home  was  really  a  modest  one ;  but  in  the  eyes  of  the  fond 
old  man  it  was  little  less  than  a  palace. 

On  the  morning  after  the  marriage,  the  moustache  of  young 
Edwards  disappeared,  and  he  went  forth  daily  from  that  time 
and  engaged  in  his  regular  business.  But  the  engraver,  who 
now  began  to  sink  rapidly  both  in  mind  and  body,  dreamed  not 
that  Dora's  husband  was  only  a  clerk,  whose  yearly  income  fell 
below  a  thousand  dollars. 

In  less  than  a  year  Mark  Stilling  slept  with  his  fathers,  deep- 
ly regretted  by  the  child  he  had  loved  with  so  strong  and  blind 
a  passion.  He  was  ignorant,  to  the  last,  of  the  deceit  that  had 
been  practiced  upon  him,  and  as  firmly  believed  that  the  kind 
and  affectionate  young  husband  of  Dora  was  of  noble  blood,  and 
one  of  the  great  ones  of  the  land,  as  that  the  sun  arose  and  set 
daily.  And  he  was  far  happier  in  this  belief  than  he  would 
would  have  been  with  all  as  real  as  he  imagined. 


WASHING-DAY. 

ANOTHER  EXPERIENCE  OF  MR.  JONES. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Jones,"  said  I,  one  Monday  morning,  as  om- 
inous washing-day  indications  met  my  eyes,  "  why  don't  you 
put  out  the  washing?  I'm  sure  it  would  be  a  great  deal 
better." 

"  Do  you  know  what  it  would  cost?"  returned  Mrs.  Jones,  a 
little  sharply,  for,  it  being  Monday,  the  influence  of  the  day  was 
already  beginning  to  be  felt. 

"  I  don't  know,  exactly,  how  much  it  would  cost,"  I  replied ; 
"  but  I  do  know,  that  it  would  be  a  great  saving." 
"  A  saving  of  what,  Mr.  Jones  ?" 
"  Of  comfort,  if  of  nothing  else." 
'  Dear  bought  comfort  you  would  soon  find  it." 
(  How  much  does  the  washing  cost  now  ?"  I  inquired. 
'  Sixty-two  and  a  half  cents,"  was  answered. 
<  Is  that  all  ?" 

'  Yes.  That  is  all  I  pay  Hester  for  a  day's  work,  and  she 
does  the  whole  of  it  in  a  day." 

"  But  you  forget  that  you  have  to  board  her,"  said  I. 
"  And  what  is  that  ?"  returned  my  wife.     "  Her  board   costs 
nothing.     One  mouth  more  in  the  family  is  not  felt." 

"  I  am  not  altogether  sure  of  that.  Didn't  you  tell  me,  this 
morning,  to  get  a  pound  or  two  more  of  meat  "for  dinner  as  the 
washerwoman  was  here  ?" 

"  You  don't  suppose  she  will  eat  two  pounds  of  meat  for  din- 
ner ?"  said  my  wife. 

35*  413 


414  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

"  I  don't  know  any  thing  about  that.  All  I  know  is,  that,  for 
the  reason  you  stated,  T  gave  twenty  cents  more  for  meat  than  I 
would  otherwise  have  paid.  It's  all  the  same  whether  she  eats 
it  or  not.  The  extra  expense  is  chargeable  to  her  being  in  the 
house.  A  very  reasonable  addition  for  the  cost  of  Hester's  break- 
fast and  supper,  is  twenty-five  cents.  These  two  items  added, 
and  you  have,  instead  of  sixty-two  and  a  half  cents  as  the  cost 
of  washing,  the  sum  of  a  dollar  and  seven  cents." 

"  And  it  would  cost  at  least  a  dollar  and  seventy-five  cents  a 
week  to  put  it  out." 

"  Is  that  all?"  I  asked,  rather  surprised  at  the  smallness  of 
the  sum.  Only  a  dollar  and  seventy-five  cents!" 

"  More  likely  it  would  cost  two  dollars." 

"  Which  would  not  be  much  more  than  it  costs  us  now," 
said  I. 

"  Although,  by  your  own  showing,  you  made  it  about  half 
that  sum."  * 

"  Yes,  but  I  am  not  done  yet.  There  are  a  few  more  items 
to  add.  There  is  fire,  which  I  will  put  down  at  a  shilling,  and 
soap,  starch  and  indigo  at  as  much  more.  Then  comes  the  wear 
and  tear  of  tubs,  washing-boards,  clothes-lines  and  pins,  to  say 
nothing  of  temper,  all  of  which  I  will  estimate  at  another  eighth 
of  a  dollar.  Breakage,  consequent  upon  cook  and  chamber- 
maids' ill-temper,  the  derangement  of  the  household,  and  anar- 
chial  privileges  of  children,  will  not  be  covered,  on  an  average, 
by  a  less  sum  than  twenty-five  cents.  This  swells  the  cost  of 
washing,  per  week,  to  a  dollar  and  seventy  cents  under  the  pre- 
sent system." 

"Breakage!     It's  preposterous!"  said  Mrs.  Jones. 

"  Not  at  all.  Don't  you  remember  when  Nancy  slipped  on 
the  stairs  where  one  of  the  children  had  laid  a  piece  of  the 
washerwoman's  soap,  and  broke  five  dollars  worth  of  things  at 
one  smash1?" 

"  That's  only  a  single  case,  and  might  have  happened  at  any 
other  time  as  well  as  on  a  washing  day." 

"  And  don't  you  remember  the  handsome  wash  pitcher  Jane 
demolished  in  a  washing-day  fever,  thus  ruining  a  set  that  cost  us 
ten  dollars.  As  for  tumblers,  cups,  saucers  and  plates,  there  is 
no  end  to  their  destruction  on  these  occasions.  And  for  a  very 
plain  reason.  The  breakfast -table  stands  in  the  floor  until  din- 
ner time  ;  and  the  dinner-table  until  supper  time.  Nobody  has 


WASHING    DAY.  415 

leisure  to  clear  any  thing  away ;  and  there  being  nobody  to  at- 
tend to  the  children,  they  rummage  about,  with  their  hands  into 
every  thing,  and,  as  a  natural  consequence,  there  is  no  end  to 
the  destruction  that  accompanies  their  movements.  Fifty  cents 
a  week,  instead  of  twenty-five,  would  be  a  nearer  approach  to  the 
loss  we  suffer  from  this  cause." 

"  You  might  talk  in  that  way  at  me  until  doomsday,  and  I 
wouldn't " 

A  loud  crash  of  broken  dislies  came  up  from  the  kitchen  at 
this  instant. 

"  Gracious!"  exclaimed  my  wife.  "  What  is  that?"  and  she 
left  my  side  in  a  twinkling,  to  investigate  the  cause  and  learn 
the  extent  of  this  new  crockery  disaster.  I  did  not  wait  to  as- 
certain the  result ;  but  decamped  for  my  place  of  business,  fond- 
ly hoping  that  what  I  had  said,  enforced  so  timely  by  a  serious 
washing-day  breakage,  would  have  the  desired  effect. 

At  dinner-time  I  went  home  in  that  delightful  state  of  doubt 
as  to  the  reception  I  should  meet,  which  most  men  feel  on  like 
occasions.  The  first  sound  that  saluted  my  ear  as  I  entered, 
was  the  crying  of  one  of  the  children  ;  and  instead  of  that  sa- 
vory odor  of  dinner,  so  grateful  to  a  hungry  man,  I  snuffed  up  a 
humid  atmosphere,  loaded  almost  to  suffocation  with  the  vapor 
of  soap  and  ley.  I  passed  the  dining-room,  but  the  table  was 
not  set.  I  went  up  into  my  wife's  room;  as  I  opened  the  door 
I  was  greeted  with  this  exclamation — 

"  There!  I  knew  it  would  be  so!  I  don't  believe  Hannah 
has  put  a  potatoe  on  to  cook  yet,  although  I  sent  her  word  an 
hour  ago  that  it  was  time  to  see  about  dinner.  But  she  has  been 
as  cross  as  she  could  be  all  the  morning." 

"  She's  been  helping  wash,  I  suppose,"  said  I. 

"  Of  course  she  has.  She  always  does  so.  But,  it's  as  easy 
to  stop  and  get  dinner  at  one  time  at  one  time  as  at  another.  I 
never  saw  such  creatures !  I  wish  you  would  ring  that  bell. 

I  did  as  desired.     It  was  answered  by  the  chambermaid. 

"  Go  down  and  see  what  under  the  sun  keeps  Hannah  back 
with  her  dinner." 

The  chambermaid  retired,  and,  in  a  little  while  came  back 
with  word  that  the  fire  had  all  gone  out,  and  that  Hannah  was 
just  making  it  up  again. 

"  Oh,  dear !"  said  I,  half  involuntarily,  drawing  out  my  watch, 
and  looking  at  the  time.  "  It's  nearly  half-past  two,  now,  and 


416  SKETCHES    OF   LIFE    AND    CHARACTER. 

I  have  an  engagement  at  a  quarter  past  three.     I  cannot  possi 
bly  wait." 

"  It  shall  be  ready  in  a  little  while,"  said  Mrs  Jones,  looking 
distressed.  "I'll  go  down  and  see  to  it.  To  think  that  girl 
would  do  so !  But,  it  is  always  so  on  washing-days.  Nothing 
goes  right,  and  there  is  no  comfort  in  the  house." 

To  that  sentiment  I  could  have  uttered  an  audible  "  amen." 
But,  I  deemed  it  prudent,  just  at  that  particular  juncture,  to  ob- 
serve a  perfect  silence. 

Sooner  than  I  expected,  the  bell  rung,  and  I  went  down  to 
the  dining-room.  I  found  my  wife  awaiting  me  at  the  table, 
with  a  flushed  and  heated  countenance,  and  many  evidences  of 
worry  and  excitement.  She  had  cleared  Hannah  out  of  the 
kitchen,  set  the  fire  a-going  with  her  own  hands,  and  cooked  the 
dinner.  But,  she  couldn't  eat  a  mouthful,  and  my  appetite  was, 
by  this  time,  among  the  things  that  were.  I  helped  the  children, 
and  offered  to  help  my  wife,  but  she  declined  every  thing.  After 
forcing  a  few  mouthfuls  down  my  throat,  I  left  the  table  and  my 
unhappy  family,  and  retired  to  my  place  of  business,  feeling  in 
no  pleasant  mood  myself. 

"  And  all  this  is  to  be  borne  and  suffered  once  a  week,  for  the 
meagre  saving  of  twenty  or  thirty  cents — perhaps  nothing  !  I 
must  use  my  veto  power  ;  must  bring  into  exercise  my  reserved 
rights,  and  I  will  do  it.  Suppose  it  cost  a  dollar  a  week  more 
to  put  out  the  washng  ?  What  of  that  ?  Five  dollars  wouldn't 
pay  for  having  the  nuisance  retained  in  the  house." 

On  the  following  morning  I  had  occasion  to  go  into  the  cel- 
lar to  make  up  a  fire  in  the  furnace.  A  gentle  tap  loosened  the 
hoops  on  a  washing-tub,  and  I  had  a  choice  lot  of  "  kindling." 
I  was  exceedingly  liberal  in  its  use,  consuming  every  vestage ! 
On  the  next  morning,  another  tub  performed  the  same  important 
service,  and  on  that  which  succeeded  I  split  up  the  washing- 
board,  and  gave  six  dozen  clothes-pins,  to  the  devouring  flames. 

On  Saturday,  I  informed  my  wife  of  what  I  had  done.  You 
may  suppose  that  she  lifted  her  eyes,  and  grew  pale  with  aston- 
ishment. But  seeing  me  so  earnest  about  the  matter,  she  made 
but  little  opposition ;  and  on  Monday  I  had  the  supreme  delight 
of  seeing  all  things  in  order,  and  sitting  down  to  a  comfortable 
breakfast,  dinner  and  supper  with  a  smiling  wife  and  happy 
children.  The  washing  has  been  put  out  ever  since. 

THE    END. 


University  of  California  Library 
Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


